The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About
the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas
for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.

All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.

Page 1

Without Prejudice

CHAPTER I

SILLY SENTIMENT

“It’s time I set about making my own living,”
said Dot Burton.

She spoke resolutely, and her face was resolute also;
its young lines were for the moment almost grim.
She stood in the doorway of the stable, watching her
brother rub down the animal he had just been riding.
Behind her the rays of the Australian sun smote almost
level, making of her fair hair a dazzling aureole
of gold. The lashes of her blue eyes were tipped
with gold also, but the brows above them were delicately
dark. They were slightly drawn just then, as
if she were considering a problem of considerable
difficulty.

Jack Burton was frankly frowning over his task.
It was quite evident that his sister’s announcement
was not a welcome one.

She continued after a moment, as he did not respond
in words: “I am sure I could make a living,
Jack. I’m not the ‘new chum’
I used to be, thanks to you. You’ve taught
me a whole heap of things.”

Jack glanced up for a second. “Aren’t
you happy here?” he said.

She eluded the question. “You’ve
been awfully good to me, dear old boy. But really,
you know, I think you’ve got burdens enough without
me. In any case, it isn’t fair that I should
add to them.”

Jack grunted. “It isn’t fair that
you should do more than half the work on the place
and not be paid for it, you mean. You’re
quite right, it isn’t.”

“No, I don’t mean that, Jack.”
Quite decidedly she contradicted him. “I
don’t mind work. I like to have my time
filled. I love being useful. It isn’t
that at all. But all the same, you and Adela are
quite complete without me. Before you were married
it was different. I was necessary to you then.
But I’m not now. And so—­”

“Has Adela been saying that to you?”

Jack Burton straightened himself abruptly. His
expression was almost fierce.

Dot laughed at sight of it. “No, Jack,
no! Don’t be so jumpy! Of course she
hasn’t. As if she would! She hasn’t
said a thing. But I know how she feels, and I
should feel exactly the same in her place. Now
do be sensible! You must see my point. I’m
getting on, you know, Jack. I’m twenty-five.
Just fancy! You’ve sheltered me quite long
enough—­too long, really. You must—­you
really must—­let me go.”

He was looking at her squarely. “I can’t
prevent your going,” he said, gruffly.
“But it won’t be with my consent—­ever—­or
my approval. You’ll go against my will—­dead
against it.”

“Jack—­darling!” She went to
him impulsively and took him by the shoulders.
“Now that isn’t reasonable of you.
It really isn’t. You’ve got to take
that back.”

He looked at her moodily. “I shan’t
take it back. I can’t. I am dead against
your going. I know this country. It’s
not a place for lone women. And you’re
not much more than a child, whatever you may say.
It’s rough, I tell you. And you”—­he
looked down upon her slender fairness—­“you
weren’t made for rough things.”

Page 2

“Please don’t be silly, Jack!” she
broke in. “I’m quite as strong as
the average woman and, I hope, as capable. I’m
grown up, you silly man! I’m old—­older
than you are in some ways, even though you have been
in the world ten years longer. Can’t you
see I want to stretch my wings?”

“Want to leave me?” he said, and put his
arms suddenly about her. She nestled to him on
the instant, lifting her face to kiss him.

“No, darling, no! Never in life! But—­you
must see—­you must see”—­her
eyes filled with tears unexpectedly, and she laid her
head upon his shoulder to hide them—­“that
I can’t—­live on you—­for
ever. It isn’t fair—­to you—­or
to Adela—­or to—­to—­anyone
else who might turn up.”

“Ah!” he said. “Or to you either.
We’ve no right to make a slave of you.
I know that. Perhaps Adela hasn’t altogether
realized it.”

“I’ve nothing—­whatever—­against
Adela,” Dot told him, rather shakily. “She
has never been—­other than kind. No,
it is what I feel myself. I am not necessary
to you or to Adela, and—­in a way—­I’m
glad of it. I like to know you two are happy.
I’m not a bit jealous, Jack, not a bit.
It’s just as it should be. But you’ll
have to let me go, dear. It’s time I went.
It’s right that I should go. You mustn’t
try to hold me back.”

But Jack’s arms had tightened about her.
“I hate the thought of it,” he said.
“Give it up! Give it up, old girl—­for
my sake!”

She shook her head silently in his embrace.

He went on with less assurance. “If you
wanted to get married it would be a different thing.
I would never stand in the way of your marrying a
decent man. If you must go, why don’t you
do that?”

She laughed rather tremulously. “You think
every good woman ought to marry, don’t you,
Jack?”

“When there’s a good man waiting for her,
why not?” said Jack.

She lifted her head and looked at him. “I’m
not going to marry Fletcher Hill, Jack,” she
said, with firmness.

Jack made a slight movement of impatience. “I
never could see your objection to the man,”
he said.

She laughed again, drawing herself back from him.
“But, Jack darling, a woman doesn’t marry
a man just because he’s not objectionable, does
she? I always said I wouldn’t marry him,
didn’t I?”

“You might do a lot worse,” said Jack.

“Of course I might—­heaps worse.
But that isn’t the point. I think he’s
quite a good sort—­in his own sardonic way.
And he is a great friend of yours, too, isn’t
he? That fact would count vastly in his favour
if I thought of marrying at all. But, you see—­I
don’t.”

“I call that uncommon hard on Fletcher,”
observed Jack.

She opened her blue eyes very wide. “My
dear man, why?”

“After waiting for you all this time,”
he explained, suffering his arms to fall away from
her.

She still gazed at him in astonishment. “Jack!
But I never asked him to wait!”

Page 3

He turned from her with a shrug of the shoulders.
“No, but I did.”

“You did? Jack, what can you mean?”

Jack stooped to feel one of his animal’s hocks.
He spoke without looking at her. “It’s
been my great wish—­all this time. I’ve
been deuced anxious about you often. Australia
isn’t the place for unprotected girls—­at
least, not out in the wilds. I’ve seen—­more
than enough of that. And you’re no wiser
than the rest. You lost your head once—­over
a rotter. You might again. Who knows?”

“Oh, really, Jack!” The girl’s face
flushed very deeply. She turned it aside instinctively,
though he was not looking at her. But the colour
died as quickly as it came, leaving her white and quivering.

She stood mutely struggling for self-control while
Jack continued. “I know Fletcher.
I know he’s sound. He’s a man who
always gets what he wants. He wouldn’t
be a magistrate now if he didn’t. And when
I saw he wanted you, I made up my mind he should have
you if I could possibly work it. I gave him my
word I’d help him, and I begged him to wait a
bit, to give you time to get over that other affair.
He’s been waiting—­ever since.”

“He won’t do that,” said Jack.
He stood up again abruptly and faced round upon her.
“Look here, dear! Why can’t you give
in and marry him? He’s such a good sort
if you only get to know him well. You’ve
always kept him at arm’s length, haven’t
you? Well, let him come a bit nearer! You’ll
soon like him well enough to marry him. He’d
make you happy, Dot. Take my word for it!”

She met his look bravely, though the distress still
lingered in her eyes. “But, dear old Jack,”
she said, “no woman can possibly love at will.”

“It would come afterwards,” Jack said,
with conviction. “I know it would.
He’s such a good chap. You’ve never
done him justice. See, Dot girl! You’re
not happy. I know that. You want to stretch
your wings, you say. Well, there’s only
one way of doing it, for you can’t go out into
the world—­this world—­alone.
At least, you’ll break my heart if you do.
He’s the only fellow anywhere near worthy of
you. And he’s been so awfully patient.
Do give him his chance!”

He put his arm round her shoulders again, holding
her very tenderly.

She yielded herself to him with a suppressed sob.
“I’m sure it would be wrong, Jack,”
she said.

“Not a bit wrong!” Jack maintained, stoutly.
“What have you been waiting for all this time?
A myth, an illusion, that can never come true!
You’ve no right to spoil your own life and someone
else’s as well for such a reason as that.
I call that wrong—­if you like.”

She hid her face against him with a piteous gesture.
“He—­said he would come back, Jack.”

Jack frowned over her bowed head even while he softly
stroked it. “And if he had—­do
you think I would ever have let you go to him?
A cattle thief, Dot! An outlaw!”

Page 4

She clung to him trembling. “He saved my
life—­at the risk of his own,” she
whispered, almost inarticulately.

“Oh, I know—­I know. He was that
sort—­brave enough, but a hopeless rotter.”
Jack’s voice held a curious mixture of tenderness
and contempt. “Women always fall in love
with that sort of fellow,” he said. “Heaven
knows why. But you’d no right to lose your
heart to him, little ’un. You knew—­you
always knew—­he wasn’t the man for
you.”

She clung to him in silence for a space, then lifted
her face. “All right, Jack,” she
said.

He looked at her closely for a moment. “Come!
It’s only silly sentiment,” he urged.
“You can’t feel bad about it after all
this time. Why, child, it’s five years!”

“Not he!” declared Jack. “Catch
Buckskin Bill putting his head back into the noose
when once he had got away! He’s not quite
so simple as that, my dear. He probably cleared
out of Australia for good as soon as he got the chance.
And a good thing, too!” he added, with emphasis.
“He’d done mischief enough.”

She raised her lips to his. “Thank you
for not laughing at me, Jack,” she said.
“Don’t—­ever—­tell
Adela, will you? I’m sure she would.”

He smiled a little. “Yes, I think she would.
She’d say you were old enough to know better.”

Dot nodded. “And very sensible, too.
I am.”

He patted her shoulder. “Good girl!
Then that chapter is closed.
And—­you’re going to give poor Fletcher
his chance?”

He gave her a hard squeeze and let her go. “There,
she shan’t be teased by her horrid bully of
a brother! She’s going to play the game
off her own bat, and I wish her luck with all my heart.”

He turned to the job of feeding his horse, and Dot,
after a few inconsequent remarks, sauntered away in
the direction of the barn, “to be alone with
herself,” as she put it.

CHAPTER II

NUMBER THREE

Adela Burton was laying the cloth for supper, and
looking somewhat severe over the process. She
was usually cheerful at that hour of the day, for
it brought her husband back from his work and, thanks
to Dot’s ministrations, the evening was free
from toil. It was seldom, indeed, that Adela
bestirred herself to lay the cloth for any meal, for
she maintained that it was better for a girl like
Dot to have plenty to do at all times, and she herself
preferred her needlework, at which she was an adept.

Page 5

No one could have called her an idle woman, but she
was eminently a selfish one. She followed her
own bent, quite regardless of the desires and inclinations
of anyone else. She was the hub of her world from
her own point of view, and she was wholly incapable
of recognizing any other. Most people realized
this and, as is the way of humanity, took her at her
own valuation, making allowances for her undoubted
egotism. For she was comely and had a taking
manner, never troubling herself unless her own personal
convenience were threatened. She laughed a good
deal, though her sense of humour was none of the finest,
and she was far too practical to possess any imagination.
In short, as she herself expressed it, she was sensible;
and, being so, she had small sympathy with her sister-in-law’s
foolish sentimentalities, which she considered wholly
out of place in the everyday life at the farm.

Not that Dot ever dreamed of confiding in her.
She sheltered herself invariably behind a reserve
so delicate as to be almost imperceptible to the elder
woman’s blunter susceptibilities. But she
could not always hide the fineness of her inner feelings,
and there were times when the two clashed in consequence.
The occasions were rare, but Adela had come to know
by experience that when they occurred, opposition on
her part was of no avail. Dot was bound to have
her way when her soul was stirred to battle for it,
as on the day when she had refused to let Robin, the
dog, be chained up when not on duty with the sheep.
Adela had objected to his presence in the house, and
Dot had firmly insisted upon it on the score that
Robin had always been an inmate as the companion and
protector of her lonely hours.

Adela had disputed the point with some energy, but
she had been vanquished, and now, when Dot asserted
herself, she seldom met with opposition from her sister-in-law.
It was practically impossible that they should ever
be fond of one another. They had nothing in common.
Yet it was very seldom that Jack saw any signs of
strain between them. They dwelt together without
antagonism and without intimacy.

Nevertheless, Dot’s announcement of her desire
to go out into the world and hew a way for herself
came as no surprise to him. He knew that she
was restless and far from happy, knew that his marriage
had unsettled her, albeit in a fashion he had not
fathomed till their talk together. His young
sister was very dear to him. She had been thrown
upon his care years before when the death of their
parents had left her dependent upon him. It had
always been his wish to have her with him. His
love for her was of a deep, almost maternal nature,
and he hated the thought of parting with her.
He had hoped that the companionship of Adela would
have been a joy to her, and he was intensely disappointed
that it had proved otherwise. His anxiety for
her welfare had always been uppermost with him, and
it hurt him somewhat when Adela laughed at his hopes
and fears regarding the girl. It was the only
point upon which his wife and he lacked sympathy.

Page 6

Entering by way of the kitchen premises on that evening
of his talk with Dot, he was surprised to find Adela
fulfilling what had come to be regarded as Dot’s
duties. He looked around him questioningly as
she emerged from the larder carrying a dish in one
hand and a jug of milk in the other.

“Where’s the little ’un?”
he said.

It was his recognized pet name for Dot, but for some
reason Adela had never approved of it. She frowned
now at its utterance.

“Do you mean Dot? Oh, mooning about somewhere,
I suppose. And leaving other people to do the
work.”

Jack promptly relieved her of her burden and set himself
to help her with her task.

Adela was not ill-tempered as a rule. She smiled
at him. “Good man, Jack! No one can
say you’re an idler, anyway. I’ve
got rather a nice supper for you. I shouldn’t
wonder if Fletcher Hill turns up to share it.
I hear he is on circuit at Trelevan.”

“I heard it, too,” said Jack. “He’s
practically sure to come.”

“He’s very persistent,” said Adela.
“Do you think he will ever win out?”

Jack nodded slowly. “I’ve never known
him fail yet in anything he set his mind to—­at
least, only once. And that was a fluke.”

“What sort of a fluke?” questioned Adela,
who was frankly curious.

“When Buckskin Bill slipped through his fingers.”
Jack spoke thoughtfully. “That’s
the only time I ever knew him fail, and I’m not
sure that it wasn’t intentional then.”

“Intentional!” Adela opened her eyes.

Jack smiled a little. “I don’t say
it was so. I only say it was possible. But
never mind that! It’s an old story, and
the man got away, anyhow—­disappeared, dropped
out. Possibly he’s dead. I hope he
is. He did mischief enough in a short time.”

“He set the whole district humming, didn’t
he?” said Adela. “They say all the
women fell in love with him at sight. I wish I’d
seen him.”

“I know you didn’t. But this thing
is serious. If Fletcher Hill comes to-night,
I believe she’ll have him—­that is,
if she’s let alone. But she won’t
if you twit her with it. It’s touch and
go.”

Jack spoke with great earnestness. It was evident
that the matter was one upon which he felt very strongly,
and Adela shrugged a tolerant shoulder and yielded
to his persuasion.

“I’ll be as solemn as a judge,”
she promised. “The affair certainly has
hung fire considerably. It would be a good thing
to get it settled. But Fletcher Hill! Well,
he wouldn’t be my choice!”

“He’s a fine man,” asserted Jack.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt. But he’s
an animal with a nasty bite, or I am much mistaken.
However, let Dot marry him by all means if she feels
that way! It’s certainly high time she
married somebody.”

She turned aside to put the teapot on the hob, humming
inconsequently, and the subject dropped.

Jack went to his room to wash, and in a few minutes
more they gathered round the supper-table with careless
talk of the doings of the day.

It had always been Dot’s favourite time, the
supper-hour. In the old days before Jack’s
marriage she had looked forward to it throughout the
day. The companionship of this beloved brother
of hers had been the chief joy of her life.

But things were different now. It was her part
to serve the meal, to clear the table, and to wash
the dishes Jack and Adela were complete without her.
Though they always welcomed her when the work was done,
she knew that her society was wholly unessential,
and she often prolonged her labours in the scullery
that she might not intrude too soon upon them.
She was no longer necessary to anyone—­except
to Robin the faithful, who followed her as her shadow.
She had become Number Three, and she was lonely—­she
was lonely!

CHAPTER III

FLETCHER HILL

There came a sound of hoofs thudding over the pastures.
Robin lifted his eyebrows and cocked his ears with
a growl.

Dot barely glanced up from the saucepan she was cleaning;
her lips tightened a little, that was all.

The hoofs drew rapidly nearer, dropping from a canter
to a quick trot that ended in a clattering walk on
the stones of the yard. Through the open window
Dot heard the heavy thud of a man’s feet as he
jumped to the ground.

Page 8

Robin was on his feet, uttering low, jerky barks.
Dot put aside her saucepan and began to wash her hands.
She did not hasten to obey Jack’s call, but
when she turned to collect glasses on a tray she was
trembling and her breath came quickly, as if from
violent exercise.

Nevertheless she did not hesitate, but went straight
through to the little parlour, carrying her tray with
the jingling glasses upon it.

Fletcher Hill was facing her as she entered, a tall
man, tough and muscular, with black hair that was
tinged with grey, and a long stubborn jaw that gave
him an indomitable look. His lips were thin and
very firm, with a sardonic twist that imparted a faintly
supercilious expression. His eyes were dark,
deep-set, and shrewd. He was a magistrate of some
repute in the district, a position which he had attained
by sheer unswerving hard work in the police force,
in which for years he had been known as “Bloodhound
Hill.” A man of rigid ideas and stern justice,
he had forced his way to the front, respected by all,
but genuinely liked by only a very few.

Jack Burton had regarded him as a friend for years,
but even Jack could not claim a very close intimacy
with him. He merely understood the man’s
silences better than most. His words were very
rarely of a confidential order.

He was emphatically not a man to attract any girl
very readily, and Dot’s attitude towards him
had always been of a strictly impersonal nature.
In fact, Jack himself did not know whether she really
liked him or not. Yet had he set his heart upon
seeing her safely married to him. There was no
other man of his acquaintance to whom he would willingly
have entrusted her. For Dot was very precious
in his eyes. But to his mind Fletcher Hill was
worthy of her, and he believed that she would be as
safe in his care as in his own.

That Fletcher Hill had long cherished the silent ambition
of winning her was a fact well known to him.
Only once had they ever spoken on the subject, and
then the words had been few and briefly uttered.
But to Jack, who had taken the initiative in the matter,
they had been more than sufficient to testify to the
man’s earnestness of purpose. From that
day he had been heart and soul on Fletcher’s
side.

He wished he could have given him a hint that evening
as he looked up to see the girl standing in the doorway;
for Dot was so cold, so aloof in her welcome.
He did not see what Hill saw at the first glance—­that
she was quivering from head to foot with nervous agitation.

She set down her tray and gave her hand to the visitor.
“Doesn’t Rupert want a drink?” she
said.

Rupert was his horse, and his most dearly prized possession.
Hill’s rare smile showed for a moment at the
question.

“Let him cool down a bit first,” he said.
“I am afraid I’ve ridden him rather hard.”

Page 9

She gave him a fleeting glance. “You have
come from Trelevan?”

“Yes. I got there this afternoon.
We left Wallacetown early this morning.”

“Rode all the way?” questioned Jack.

“Yes, every inch. I wanted to see the Fortescue
Gold Mine.”

“Ah! There’s a rough crowd there,”
said Jack. “They say all the uncaught criminals
find their way to the Fortescue Gold Mine.”

“Yes,” said Hill.

“Is it true?” asked Adela, curiously.

“I am not in a position to say, madam.”
Hill’s voice sounded sardonic.

“That means he doesn’t know,” explained
Jack. “Look here, man! If you’ve
ridden all the way from Wallacetown to-day you can’t
go back to Trelevan to-night. Your animal must
be absolutely used up—­if you are not.”

“Oh, I think not. We are both tougher than
that.” Hill turned towards him. “Don’t
mix it too strong, Jack! I hardly ever touch it
except under your roof.”

“I am indeed honoured,” laughed Jack.
“But if you’re going to spend the night
you’ll be able to sleep it off before you face
your orderly in the morning.”

“Do stay!” said Adela, hastening to follow
up her husband’s suggestion. “We
should all like it. I hope you will.”

Hill bowed towards her with stiff ceremony. “You
are very kind, madam. But I don’t like
to give trouble, and I am expected back.”

“By whom?” questioned Jack. “No
one that counts, I’ll swear. Your orderly
won’t break his heart if you take a night out.
He’ll probably do the same himself. And
no one else will know. We’ll let you leave
as early as you like in the morning, but not before.
Come, that’s settled, isn’t it? Go
and get Rupert a shake-down, little ’un, and
give him a decent feed with plenty of corn in it!
No, let her, man; let her! She likes doing it,
eh, Dot girl?”

“Yes, I like it,” Dot said, and hurriedly
disappeared before Hill could intervene.

Jack turned to his wife. “Now, missis!
Go and make ready upstairs! It’s only a
little room, Fletcher, but it’s snug. That’s
the way,” as his wife followed Dot’s example.
“Now—­quick, man! I want a word
with you.”

He straightened his tall figure with an instinctive
bracing of the shoulders, and turned to the door.

Jack watched him go with a smile that was not untinged
with anxiety, and lifted his glass as the door closed.

“You’ve got the cards, old feller,”
he said. “May you play ’em well!”

Fletcher Hill stepped forth into the moonlit night
and stood still. It had been a swift maneuvre
on Jack’s part, and it might have disconcerted
a younger man and driven him into ill-considered action.
But it was not this man’s nature to act upon
impulse. His caution was well known. It had
been his safeguard in many a difficulty. It stood
him in good stead now.

Page 10

So for a space he remained, looking out over the widespread
grasslands, his grim face oddly softened and made
human. He was no longer an official, but a man,
with feelings rendered all the keener for the habitual
restraint with which he masked them.

He moved forward at length through the magic moonlight,
guided by the sound of trampling hoofs in the building
where Jack’s horse was stabled. He reached
the doorway, treading softly, and looked in.

Dot was in a stall with his mount Rupert—­a
powerful grey, beside which she looked even lighter
and daintier than usual. The animal was nibbling
carelessly at her arm while she filled the manger with
hay. She was talking to him softly, and did not
perceive Hill’s presence. Robin, who sat
waiting near the entrance, merely pricked his ears
at his approach.

Some minutes passed. Fletcher stood like a sentinel
against the doorpost. He might have been part
of it for his immobility. The girl within continued
to talk to the horse while she provided for his comfort,
low words unintelligible to the silent watcher, till,
as she finished her task, she suddenly threw her arms
about the animal’s neck and leaned her head
against it.

“Oh, Rupert,” she said, and there was
a throb of passion in her words, “I wish—­I
wish you and I could go right away into the wilderness
together and never—­never come back!”

Rupert turned his head and actually licked her hair.
He was a horse of understanding.

She uttered a little sobbing laugh and tenderly kissed
his nose. “You’re a dear, sympathetic
boy! Who taught you to be, I wonder? Not
your master, I’m sure! He’s nothing
but a steel machine all through!”

And then she turned to leave the stable and came upon
Fletcher Hill, mutely awaiting her.

CHAPTER IV

THE COAT OF MAIL

She gave a great start at sight of him, then quickly
drew herself together.

“You have come to see if Rupert is all right
for the night?” she said. “Go in
and have a look at him.”

But Fletcher made no movement to enter. He faced
her with a certain rigidity. “No.
I came to see you—­alone.”

She made a sharp movement that was almost a gesture
of protest. Then she turned and drew the door
softly shut behind her. Robin came and pressed
close to her, as if he divined that she stood in need
of some support. With her back to the closed
door and the moonlight in her eyes, she stood before
Fletcher Hill.

“What do you want to say to me?” she said.

He bent slightly towards her. “It is not
a specially easy thing, Miss Burton,” he said,
“when I am more than half convinced that it is
something you would rather not hear.”

She met his look with unflinching steadiness.
“I think life is made up of that sort of thing,”
she said. “It’s like a great puzzle
that never fits. I’ve been saying—­unwelcome
things—­to-day, too.”

Page 11

She smiled, but her lips were quivering. The
man’s hands slowly clenched.

“That means you’re unhappy,” he
said.

She nodded. “I’ve been telling Jack
that I must get away—­go and earn my own
living somewhere. He won’t hear of it.”

She made no movement towards him. “That
is what you came to say?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Hill.

He waited a moment; then, as she did not take his
hand, bent with a certain mastery and took one of
hers.

“I’ve wanted it for years,” he said.

“Ah!” A little sound like a sob came with
the words. She made as if she would withdraw
her hand, but in the end—­because he held
it closely—­she suffered him to keep it.
She spoke with an effort. “I—­think
you ought to understand that—­that—­it
is not my wish to marry at all. If—­if
Jack had stayed single, I—­should have been
content to live on here for always.”

“Yes, I know,” said Hill. “I
saw that.”

She went on tremulously. “I’ve always
felt—­that a woman ought to be able to manage
alone. It’s very kind of you to want to
marry me. But—­but I—­I think
I’m getting too old.”

“Is that the only obstacle?” asked Hill.

She tried to laugh, but it ended in a sound of tears.
She turned her face quickly aside. “I can’t
tell you—­of any other,” she said,
with difficulty, “except—­except—­”

“Except that you don’t like me much?”
he suggested dryly. “Well, that doesn’t
surprise me.”

“Oh, I didn’t say that!” She choked
back her tears and turned back to him. “Let’s
walk a little way together, shall we? I—­I’ll
try and explain—­just how I feel about things.”

He moved at once to comply. They walked side
by side over the close-cropped grass. Dot would
have slipped her hand free, but still he kept it.

They had traversed some yards before she spoke again,
and then her voice was low and studiously even.

“I can’t pretend to you that there has
never been anyone else. It wouldn’t be
right. You probably wouldn’t believe me
if I did.”

“I’m glad of that,” Dot said.
“I would rather you knew about it. Only”—­her
voice quivered again—­“I don’t
know how to tell you.”

“You are sure you would rather I knew?”
he said.

“Yes.” She spoke with decision.
“You’ve got to know if—­if—­”
She broke off.

Page 12

“If we are going to be married?” he suggested.

“Yes,” whispered Dot.

Hill walked a few paces in silence. Then, unexpectedly,
he drew the nervous little hand he held through his
arm. “Well, you needn’t tell me any
more,” he said. “I know the rest.”

She started and stood still. There was quick
fear in the look she threw him. “You mean
Jack told you—­”

“No, I don’t,” said Hill. “Jack
has never yet told me anything I couldn’t have
told him ages before. I knew from the beginning.
It was the fellow they called Buckskin Bill, wasn’t
it?”

She quivered from head to foot and was silent.

Hill went on ruthlessly. “First, by a stroke
of luck, he saved you from death by snake-bite.
He always had the luck on his side, that chap.
I should have caught him but for that. I’d
got him—­I’d got him in the hollow
of my hand. But you”—­for the
first time there was a streak of tenderness in his
speech—­“you were a new chum then—­you
held me up. Remember how you covered his retreat
when we came up? Did you really think I didn’t
know?”

She uttered a sobbing laugh. “I was very
frightened, too. I always was scared at the law.”

Hill nodded. He also was grimly smiling.

“But you dared it. You’d have dared
anything for him that day. He always got the
women on his side.”

She winced a little.

“It’s true,” he asserted. “I
know what happened—­as well as if I’d
seen it. He made love to you in a very gallant,
courteous fashion. I never saw Buckskin Bill,
but I believe he was always courteous when he had
time. And he promised to come back, didn’t
he—­when he’d given up being a thief
and a swindler and had turned his hand to an honest
trade? All that—­for your sake!...
Yes, I thought so. But, my dear child, do you
really imagine he meant it—­after all these
years?”

She looked at him with a piteous little smile.
“He—­he’d be worth having—­if
he did, wouldn’t he?” she said.

“I wonder,” said Hill.

He waited for a few moments, then laid his hand upon
her shoulder with a touch that seemed to her as heavy
as the hand of the law.

“I can’t help thinking,” he said,
“that you’d find a plain man like myself
more satisfactory to live with. It’s for
you to decide. Only—­it seems a pity
to waste your life waiting for someone who will never
come.”

She could not contradict him. The argument was
too obvious. She longed to put that steady hand
away from her, but she felt physically incapable of
doing so. An odd powerlessness possessed her.
She was as one caught in a trap.

Yet after a second or two she mustered strength to
ask a question to which she had long desired an answer.
“Did you ever hear any more of him?”

“Not for certain. I believe he left the
country, but I don’t know. Anyway, he found
this district too hot to hold him, for he never broke
cover in this direction again. I should have had
him if he had.”

Page 13

Fletcher Hill spoke with a grim assurance. He
was holding her before him, one hand on her shoulder,
the other grasping hers. Abruptly he bent towards
her.

“Come!” he said. “It’s
going to be ‘Yes,’ isn’t it?”

She looked up at him with troubled eyes. Suddenly
she shivered as if an icy blast had caught her.
“Oh, I’m frightened!” she said.
“I’m frightened!”

“Nonsense!” said Hill.

He drew her gently to him and held her. She was
shaking from head to foot. She began to sob,
hopelessly, like a lost child.

“Don’t!” he said. “Don’t!
It’s all right. I’ll take care of
you. I’ll make you happy. I swear
to God I’ll make you happy!”

It was forcibly spoken, and it showed her more of
the man’s inner nature than she had ever seen
before. Almost in spite of herself she was touched.
She leaned against him, fighting her weakness.

“It isn’t—­fair to you,”
she murmured at last.

“That’s my affair,” said Hill.

She kept her face hidden from him, and he did not
seek to raise it; but there was undoubted possession
in the holding of his arms.

After a moment or two she spoke again. “What
will you do if—­if you find you’re
not—­happy with me?”

“I’ll take my chance of that,” said
Fletcher Hill. He added, under his breath, “I’ll
be good to you—­in any case.”

That moved her. She lifted her face impulsively.
“You—­you are much nicer than I thought
you were,” she said.

He bent to her. “It isn’t very difficult
to be that,” he said, with a somewhat sardonic
touch of humour. “I haven’t a very
high standard to beat, have I?”

It was not very lover-like. Perhaps, he feared
to show her too much of his soul just then, lest he
seem to be claiming more than she was prepared to
offer. Perhaps that reserve of his which clothed
him like a coat of mail was more than even he could
break through. But so it was that then—­just
then, when the desire of his heart was actually within
his grasp, he contented himself with taking a very
little. He kissed her, indeed, though it was
but a brief caress—­over before her quivering
lips could make return; nor did he seek to deter her
as she withdrew herself from his arms.

She stood a moment, looking small and very forlorn.
Then she turned to retrace her steps.

“Shall we go back?” she said.

He went back with her in silence till they reached
the gate that led into the yard. Then for a second
he grasped her arm, detaining her.

“It is—­’Yes?’”
he questioned.

She bent her head in acquiescence, not looking at
him. “Yes,” she said, in a whisper.

And Fletcher let her go.

CHAPTER V

THE LOST ROMANCE

Jack looked in vain for any sign of elation on his
friend’s face when he entered. He read
nothing but grim determination. Dot’s demeanour
also was scarcely reassuring. She seemed afraid
to lift her eyes.

Page 14

“Isn’t it nearly bed-time?” she
murmured to Adela as she passed.

Adela looked at her with frank curiosity. There
were no fine shades of feeling about Adela. She
always went straight to the point—­unless
restrained by Jack.

“Oh, it’s quite early yet,” she
said, wholly missing the appeal in the girl’s
low-spoken words. “What have you two been
doing? Moonshining?”

Fletcher looked as contemptuous as his immobile countenance
would allow, and sat down by his untouched drink without
a word.

But it took more than a look to repress Adela.
She laughed aloud. “Does that mean I am
to draw my own conclusions, Mr. Hill? Would you
like me to tell you what they are?”

“Not for my amusement,” said Hill, dryly.
“Where did you get this whisky from, Jack?
I hope it’s a legal brand.”

“I hope it is,” agreed Jack. “I
don’t know its origin. I got it through
Harley. You know him? The manager of the
Fortescue Gold Mine.”

“Yes, I know him,” said Hill. “He
is retiring, and another fellow is taking his place.”

“Retiring, is he? I thought he was the
only person who could manage that crowd.”
Jack spoke with surprise.

Hill took out his pipe and began to fill it.
“He’s got beyond it. Too much running
with the hare and hunting with the hounds. They
need a younger man with more decision and resource—­someone
who can handle them without being afraid.”

“Have they got such a man?” questioned
Jack.

“They believe they have.” Hill spoke
thoughtfully. “He’s a man from the
West, who has done some tough work in the desert, but
brought back more in the way of experience than gold.
He’s been working in the Fortescue Mine now
for six months, a foreman for the past three.
Harley tells me the men will follow him like sheep.
But for myself, I’m not so sure of him.”

“Not sure of him? What are you afraid of?
Whisky-running?” asked Jack, with a twinkle.

There was no answering gleam of humour on Hill’s
face. “I never trust any man until I know
him,” he said. “He may be sound, or
he may be a scoundrel. He’s got to prove
himself.”

“All the better, I should say,” remarked
Adela. “But what is he like? Is he
an old man?”

“About my age,” said Hill.

“I wish you’d give us an introduction
to him,” she said, with animation. “I’ve
always wanted to see that mine. You’d like
to, too, wouldn’t you, Dot?”

Dot started a little. She had been sitting quite
silent in the background.

“I expect it would be quite interesting,”
she said, as Hill looked towards her. “But
perhaps it wouldn’t be very easy to manage it.”

Page 15

“I could arrange it if you cared to go,”
said Hill.

“Could you? How kind of you! But it
would mean spending the night at Trelevan, wouldn’t
it? I—­I think we are too busy for that.”
Dot glanced at her brother in some uncertainty.

“Oh, it could be managed,” said Jack,
kindly. “Why not? You don’t get
much fun in life. If you want to see the mine,
and Hill can arrange it, it shall be done.”

“Thank you,” said Dot.

Adela turned towards her. “My dear, do
work up a little enthusiasm! You’ve sat
like a mute ever since you came in. What’s
the matter?”

Dot was on her feet in a moment. This sort of
baiting, good-natured though it was, was more than
she could bear. “I’ve one or two jobs
left in the kitchen,” she said. “I’ll
go and attend to them—­if no one minds.”

She was gone with the words, Adela’s ringing
laugh pursuing her as she closed the door. She
barely paused in the kitchen, but fled to her own
room. She could not—­no, she could not—­face
the laughter and congratulations that night.

She flung herself down upon her bed and lay there
trembling like a terrified creature caught in a trap.
Her brain was a whirl of bewildering emotions.
She knew not which way to turn to escape the turmoil,
or even if she were glad or sorry for the step she
had taken. She wondered if Hill would tell Jack
and Adela the moment her back was turned, and dreaded
to hear the sound of her sister-in-law’s footsteps
outside her door.

But no one came, and after a time she grew calmer.
After all, though in the end she had made her decision
somewhat suddenly, it had not been an unconsidered
one. Though she could not pretend to love Fletcher
Hill, she had a sincere respect for him. He was
solid, and she knew that her future would be safe
in his hands. The past was past, and every day
took her farther from it. Yet very deep down
in her soul there still lurked the memory of that
past. In the daytime she could put it from her,
stifle it, crowd it out with a multitude of tasks;
but at night in her dreams that memory would not always
be denied. In her dreams the old vision returned—­tender,
mocking, elusive—­a sunburnt face with eyes
of vivid blue that looked into hers, smiling and confident
with that confidence that is only possible between
spirits that are akin. She would feel again the
pressure of a man’s lips on the hollow of her
arm—­that spot which still bore the tiny
mark which once had been a snake-bite. He had
come to her in her hour of need, and though he was
a fugitive from justice, she would never forget his
goodness, his readiness to serve her, his chivalry.
And while in her waking hours she chid herself for
her sentimentality, yet even so, she had not been
able to force herself to cast her brief romance away.

Page 16

Ah, well, she had done it now. The way was closed
behind her. There could be no return. It
was all so long ago. She had been little more
than a child then, and now she was growing old.
The time had come to face the realities of life, to
put away the dreams. She believed that Fletcher
Hill was a good man, and he had been very patient.
She quivered a little at the thought of that patience
of his. There was a cast-iron quality about it,
a forcefulness, that made her wonder. Had she
ever really met the man who dwelt within that coat
of mail? Could there be some terrible revelation
in store for her? Would she some day find that
she had given herself to a being utterly alien to
her in thought and impulse? He had shown her
so little—­so very little—­of his
soul.

Did he really love her, she wondered? Or had
he merely determined to win her because it had been
so hard a task? He was a man who revelled in
overcoming difficulties, in asserting his grim mastery
in the face of heavy odds. He was never deterred
by circumstances, never turned back from any purpose
upon the accomplishment of which he had set his mind.
His subordinates were afraid to tell him of failure.
She had heard it said that Bloodhound Hill could be
a savage animal when roused.

There came a low sound at her door, the soft turning
of the handle, Jack’s voice whispered through
the gloom.

“Are you asleep, little ’un?”

She started up on the bed. “Oh, Jack, come
in, dear! Come in!”

He came to her, put his arms about her, and held her
close. “Fletcher’s been telling me,”
he whispered into her ear. “Adela’s
gone to bed. It’s quite all right, little
’un, is it? You’re not—­sorry?”

She caught the anxiety in the words as she clung to
him. “I—­don’t think so,”
she whispered back. “Only I—­I’m
rather frightened, Jack.”

“There’s no need, darling,” said
Jack, and kissed her very tenderly. “He’s
a good fellow—­the best of fellows.
He’s sworn to me to make you happy.”

She was trembling a little in his hold. “He—­doesn’t
want to marry me yet, does he?” she asked, nervously.

He put a very gentle hand upon her head. “Don’t
funk the last fence, old girl!” he said, softly.
“You’ll like being married.”

“Ah!” She was breathing quickly.
“I am not so sure. And there’s no
getting back, is there, Jack? Oh, please, do ask
him to wait a little while! I’m sure he
will. He is very kind.”

“He has waited five years already,” Jack
pointed out. “Don’t you think that’s
almost long enough, dear?”

She put a hand to her throat, feeling as if there
were some constriction there. “He has been
speaking to you about it! He wants you to—­to
persuade me—­to—­to make me—­”

“No, dear, no!” Jack spoke very gravely.
“He wants you to please yourself. It is
I who think that a long delay would be a mistake.
Can’t you be brave, Dot? Take what the
gods send—­and be thankful?”

Page 17

She tried to laugh. “I’m an awful
idiot, Jack. Yes, I will—­I will be
brave. After all, it isn’t as if—­as
if I were really sacrificing anything, is it?
And you’re sure he’s a good man, aren’t
you? You are sure he will never let me down?”

“I am quite sure,” Jack said, firmly.
“He is a fine man, Dot, and he will always set
your happiness before his own.”

She breathed a short sigh. “Thank you,
Jack, I feel better. You’re wonderfully
good to me, dear old boy. Tell him—­tell
him I’ll marry him as soon as ever I can get
ready! I must get a few things together first,
mustn’t I?”

Jack laughed a little. “You look very nice
in what you’ve got.”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” she said.
“If I’m going to live at Wallacetown—­Wallacetown,
mind you, the smartest place this side of Sydney—­I
must be respectably clothed. I shall have to go
to Trelevan, and see what I can find.”

“You and Adela had better have a week off,”
said Jack, “and go while Fletcher is busy there.
You’ll see something of him in the evenings
then.”

“What about you?” she said, squeezing
his arm.

“Oh, I shall be all right. I’m expecting
Lawley in from the ranges. He’ll help me.
I’ve got to learn to do without you, eh, little
’un?” He held her to him again.

She clasped his neck. “It’s your
own doing, Jack; but I know it’s for my good.
You must let me come and help you sometimes—­just
for a holiday.” Her voice trembled.

He kissed her again with great tenderness. “You’ll
come just whenever you feel like it, my dear,”
he said. “And God bless you!”

CHAPTER VI

THE WAY TO HAPPINESS

On account of its comparative proximity to the gold
mine, Trelevan, though of no great size, was a busy
place. Dot had stayed at the hotel there with
her brother on one or two occasions, but it was usually
noisy and crowded, and, unlike Adela, she found little
to amuse her in the type of men who thronged it.
Fletcher Hill always stayed there when he came to
Trelevan. The police court was close by, and it
suited his purpose; but he mixed very little with
his fellow-guests and was generally regarded as unapproachable—­a
mere judicial machine with whom very few troubled to
make acquaintance.

Fletcher Hill in the role of a squire of dames was
a situation that vastly tickled Adela’s sense
of humour. As she told Jack, it was going to
be the funniest joke of her life.

Neither Hill nor his grave young fiancee seemed aware
of any cause for mirth, but with Adela that was neither
here nor there. She and Dot never had anything
in common, and as for Fletcher Hill, he was the driest
stick of a man she had ever met. But she was
not going to be bored on that account. To give
Adela her due, boredom was a malady from which she
very rarely suffered.

She was in the best of spirits on the evening of their
arrival at Trelevan. The rooms that Fletcher
Hill had managed to secure for them led out of each
other, and the smaller of them, Dot’s looked
out over the busiest part of the town. As Adela
pointed out, this was an advantage of little value
at night, and it could be shared in the daytime.

Page 18

Dot said nothing. She was used to her sister-in-law’s
cheerful egotism, and Adela had never hesitated to
invade her privacy if she felt so inclined. Her
chief consolation was that Adela was a very sound sleeper,
so that there was small chance of having her solitude
disturbed at night.

She herself was not sleeping so well as usual just
then. A great restlessness was upon her, and
often she would pace to and fro like a caged thing
for half the night. She was not actively unhappy,
but a great weight seemed to oppress her—­a
sense of foreboding that was sometimes more than she
could bear.

Fletcher Hill’s calm countenance as he welcomed
them upon their arrival reassured her somewhat.
He was so perfectly self-controlled and steady in
his demeanour. The very grasp of his hand conveyed
confidence. She felt as if he did her good.

They dined together in the common dining-room, but
at a separate table in a corner. There were many
coming and going, and Adela was frankly interested
in them all. As she said, it was so seldom that
she had the chance of studying the human species in
such variety. When the meal was over she good-naturedly
settled herself in a secluded corner and commanded
them to leave her.

“There’s something in the shape of a glass-house
at the back,” she said. “I don’t
know if it can be called a conservatory. But anyhow
I should think you might find a seat and solitude
there, and that, I conclude, is what you most want.
Anyhow, don’t bother about me! I can amuse
myself here for any length of time.”

They took her at her word, though neither of them
seemed in any hurry to depart. Dot lingered because
the prospect of a tete-a-tete in a strange
place, where she could not easily make her escape if
she desired to do so, embarrassed her. And Hill
waited, as his custom was, with a grim patience that
somehow only served to increase her reluctance to be
alone with him.

“Run along! It’s getting late,”
Adela said at last. “Carry her off, Mr.
Hill! You’ll never get her to make the first
move.”

There was some significance in words and smile.
Dot stiffened and turned sharply away.

Hill followed her, and outside the room she waited
for him.

“Do you know the way?” she asked, without
looking at him.

He took her by the arm, and again she had a wayward
thought of the hand of the law. She knew now
what it felt like to be marshalled by a policeman.
She almost uttered a remark to that effect, but, glancing
up at him, decided that it would be out of place.
For the man’s harsh features were so sternly
set that she wondered if Adela’s careless talk
had aroused his anger.

She said nothing, therefore, and he led her to the
retreat her sister-in-law had mentioned in unbroken
silence. It was certainly not a very artistic
corner. A few straggling plants in pots decorated
it, but they looked neglected and shabby. Yet
the thought went through her, it might have been a
bower of delight had they been in the closer accord
of lovers who desire naught but each other.

Page 19

The place was deserted, lighted only by a high window
that looked into a billiard-room. The window
was closed, but the rattle of the balls and careless
voices of the players came through the silence.
A dusty bench was let into the wall below it.

“Do you like this place?” asked Fletcher
Hill.

She glanced around her with a little nervous laugh.
“It’s as good as any other, isn’t
it?”

His hand still held her arm. He bent slightly,
looking into her face. “I’ve been
wanting to talk to you,” he said.

“Have you?” She tried to meet his look,
but failed. “What about?” she said,
almost in a whisper.

He bent lower. “Dot, are you afraid of
me?” he said.

That brought her eyes to his face with a jerk.
“I—­I—­no—­of course
not!” she stammered, in confusion.

“Quite sure?” he said.

She collected herself with an effort. “Quite,”
she told him with decision, and met his gaze with
something of a challenge in her own.

But he disconcerted her the next moment. She
felt again the man’s grim mastery behind the
iron of his patience. “I want to talk to
you,” he said, “about our marriage.”

“Ah!” It was scarcely more than a sharp
intake of the breath, and as it escaped again Dot
turned white to the lips. His close scrutiny became
suddenly more than she could bear, and she turned sharply
from him.

He kept his hand upon her arm, but he made no further
effort to restrain her, merely waiting mutely for
her to speak.

In the room behind them there came the smart knocking
of the balls, and a voice cried, “By Jove, he’s
fluked again! It’s the devil’s own
luck!”

Dot flinched a little. The careless voice jarred
upon her. Her nerves were all on edge. Fletcher
Hill’s hand was like a steel trap, cold and
firm and merciless. She longed to wrench herself
free from it, yet felt too paralysed to move.

And still he waited, not urging her, yet by his very
silence making her aware of a compulsion she could
not hope to resist for long.

She turned to him at last in desperation. “What—­have
you to suggest?” she asked.

“I?” he said. “I shall be ready
at the end of the week—­if that will suit
you.”

She gazed at him blankly. “The end of the
week! But of course not—­of course
not! You are joking!”

Then, as she hesitated, he very gently put her down
upon the seat under the closed window, and stood before
her, blocking her in.

“I have been wanting this opportunity of talking
to you,” he said, “without Jack chipping
in. He’s a good fellow, and I know he is
on my side. But I have a fancy for scoring off
my own bat. Listen, Dot! I am not suggesting
anything very preposterous. You have promised
to marry me. Haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, breathlessly.
“Yes.”

Page 20

“Yes,” he repeated. “And the
longer you have to think about it, the more scared
you will get. My dear child, what is the point
of spinning it out in this fashion? You are going
through agonies of mind—­for nothing.
If I gave you back your freedom, you wouldn’t
be any happier, would you?”

She was silent.

“Would you?” he said again, and laid his
hand upon her shoulder.

“I—­don’t think so,” she
said, faintly.

He took up her words again with magisterial emphasis.
“You don’t think so. Well, there
is every reason to suppose you wouldn’t.
You weren’t happy before, were you?”

She gripped her courage with immense effort.
“I haven’t been happy—­since,”
she said.

He accepted the statement without an instant’s
discomfiture. “I know you haven’t.
I realized that the moment I saw you. You have
been suffering the tortures of the damned because
you’re in a positive hell of indecision.
Oh, I know all about it.” His hand moved
a little upon her shoulder; it almost seemed to caress
her. “I haven’t studied human nature
all these years for nothing. I know you’re
in a perfect fever of doubt, and it’ll go on
till you’re married. What’s the good
of it? Why torture yourself like this when the
way to happiness lies straight before you? Are
you hoping against hope that something may yet turn
up to prevent our marriage? Would you be happy
if it did? Answer me!”

But she shrank from answering, sitting with her hands
clasped tightly before her and her eyes downcast like
a prisoner awaiting sentence. “I don’t
know—­what I want,” she told him, miserably.
“I feel—­as if—­whatever
I do—­will be wrong.”

“That’s just it,” said Fletcher
Hill, as if that were the very admission he had been
waiting for. And then he did what for him was
a very curious thing. He went down upon one knee
on the dusty floor, bringing his face on a level with
hers, clasping her tense hands between his own.
“You don’t trust yourself, and you won’t
trust me,” he said. “Isn’t that
it? Or something like it?”

The official air had dropped from him like a garment.
She looked at him doubtfully, almost as if she suspected
him of trying to trick her. Then, reassured by
something in the harsh countenance which his voice
and words utterly failed to express, she leaned impulsively
forward with a swift movement of surrender and laid
her head against his shoulder.

“I’ll do—­whatever you wish,”
she said, in muffled tones. “I will trust
you! I do trust you!”

He put his arm around her, for she was trembling,
and held her so for a space in silence.

The voice in the billiard-room took up the tale.
“That fellow’s luck is positively prodigious.
He can’t help scoring—­whatever he
does. He’d dig gold out of an ash heap.”

Someone laughed, and there came again the clash of
the billiard-balls, followed in a second by a shout
of applause.

Page 21

The noise subsided, and Fletcher spoke. “My
job here will be over in a week. Jack can manage
to join us at the end of it. Your sister-in-law
is already here. Why not finish up by getting
married and returning to Wallacetown with me?”

“I should have to go back to the farm and get
the rest of my things,” said Dot.

“You could do that afterwards,” he said,
“when I am away on business. I shan’t
be able to take you with me everywhere. Some of
the places I have to go to would be too rough for
you. But I shall be at Wallacetown for some weeks
after this job. You have never seen my house there.
I took it over from the last Superintendent.
I think you’ll like it. I got it for that
reason.”

She started a little. “But you didn’t
know then—­How long ago was it?”

“Three years,” said Fletcher Hill.
“I’ve been getting it ready for you ever
since.”

She looked up at him. “You—­took
a good deal for granted, didn’t you?”
she said.

She laid her hand on his arm with a shy gesture.
“I hope you won’t be dreadfully disappointed
in me,” she said.

He bent towards her, and for a moment she felt as
if his keen eyes pierced her. “I don’t
think that is very likely,” he said, and kissed
her with the words.

She did not shrink from his kiss, but she did not
return it; nor did he linger as if expecting any return.

He was on his feet the next moment, and she wondered
with a little sense of chill if he were really satisfied.

CHAPTER VII

THE CONQUEROR

They found Adela awaiting them in her corner, but
chafing for a change.

“I want you to take us to the billiard-room,”
she said to Fletcher. “There’s a
great match on. I’ve heard a lot of men
talking about it. And I adore watching billiards.
I’m sure we shan’t be in the way.
I’ll promise not to talk, and Dot is as quiet
as a mouse.”

“Oh, no,” she said at once. “I
don’t feel a bit sleepy. Let us go in by
all means if you think no one will mind! I like
watching billiards, too.”

“It’s a man called Warden,” said
Adela. “That’s the new manager of
the Fortescue Gold Mine, isn’t it? They
say he has the most marvelous luck. He is playing
the old manager—­Harley, and giving him fifty
points. There’s some pretty warm betting
going on, I can tell you. Do let us go and have
a look at them! They’ve got the girl from
the bar to mark for them, so we shan’t be the
only women there.”

She was evidently on fire for this new excitement,
and Fletcher Hill, seeing that Dot meant what she
said, led the way without further discussion.
He paused outside the billiard-room door, which stood
ajar; for a tense silence reigned. But it was
broken in a moment by the sharp clash of the balls
and a perfect howl of enthusiasm from the spectators.

Page 22

The barmaid came flying out to fetch drinks as they
entered. The atmosphere of the room was thick
with smoke. A babel of voices filled it.
Men who had been sitting round the walls were grouped
about the table. In the midst of them stood the
victor in his shirt-sleeves, conspicuous in the crowd
by reason of his great height—­a splendid
figure of manhood with a careless freedom of bearing
that was in its way superb.

He was turned away from the door at their entrance,
and Dot saw only a massive head of straw-coloured
hair above a neck that was burnt brick-red. Then,
laughing at some joke, he wheeled round again to the
table; and she saw his face....

It was the face of a Viking, deeply sunburnt, vividly
alive. A fair moustache covered his upper lip,
and below it the teeth gleamed, white and regular
like the teeth of an animal in the wilderness.
He had that indescribable look of morning-time, of
youth at its best, which only springs in the wild.
His eyes were intensely blue. They gazed straight
across at her with startling directness.

And suddenly Dot’s heart gave a great jerk,
and stood still. It was not the first time that
those eyes had looked into hers.

The moment passed. He bent himself over the table,
poised for a stroke, which she saw him execute a second
later with a delicacy that thrilled her strangely.
Full well did she remember the deftness and the steadiness
of those brown hands. Had they not held her up,
sustained her, in the greatest crisis of her life?

Her heart throbbed on again with hard, uneven strokes.
She was straining her ears for the sound of his voice—­that
voice that had once spoken to her quivering soul,
pleading with her that she would at their next meeting
treat him—­without prejudice. The memory
thrilled through her. This was the man for whose
coming she had waited so long!

He had straightened himself again, and was coming
round the table to follow up his stroke. Fletcher
Hill spoke at her shoulder.

“Sit down!” he said. “There
is room here.”

There was a small space on the corner of the raised
settee that ran along the side of the room. Dot
and Adela sat down together. Hill stood beside
them, looking over the faces of the men present, with
keen eyes that missed nothing.

Dot sat palpitating, her hands clasped before her,
seeing only the great figure that leaned over the
table for another stroke. Would he look at her
again? Would he remember her? Would he speak?

Fascinated, she watched him. He executed his
stroke, again with that steady confidence, that self-detachment,
that seemed to set him apart from all other men.
He was standing close to her now, and the nearness
of his presence thrilled her. She tingled from
head to foot, as if under the power of an electric
battery.

Page 23

His late opponent stood facing her on the other side
of the table, a grey-haired man with crafty eyes that
seemed to look in all directions at the same time.
She took an instinctive dislike to him. He wore
a furtive air.

Warden stood up again, moving with that free swing
of his as of one born to conquer. He turned deliberately
and faced them.

“No, thanks. I am with ladies,” he
said. “I suppose the play is over?”

Warden glanced across the table. “Unless
Harley wants his revenge,” he said.

The grey-haired man uttered a laugh that was like
the bark of a vicious dog. “I’ll
have that another day,” he said. “It
won’t spoil by keeping. You are a player
yourself, Mr. Hill. Why don’t you take him
on?”

“Oh, do!” burst forth Adela. “I
should love to see a good game. You ask him to,
Dot! He’ll do it for you.”

But Dot sat silent, her fingers straining against
each other, her eyes fixed straight before her, seeing
yet unseeing, as one beneath a spell.

There was a momentary pause. The room was full
of the harsh babel of men’s voices. The
drinks were being distributed.

Suddenly a voice spoke out above the rest. “Here’s
to the new manager! Good luck to him! Bill
Warden, here’s to you! Success and plenty
of it!”

Instantly the hubbub increased a hundredfold.
Bill Warden swung round laughing to face the clamour,
and the tension went out of Dot. She drooped
forward with a weary gesture. As in a dream she
heard the laughter and the shouting. It seemed
to sweep around her in great billows of sound.
But she was too tired to notice, too tired to care.
He did not know her. She was sure of that now.
He had forgotten. The memory that had affected
her so poignantly had slipped like a dim cloud below
his horizon. The glory had departed, and life
was grey and cold.

“You are tired,” said Fletcher’s
voice beside her. “Would you like to go?”

She looked up at him. His eyes were searching
hers, and swiftly she realized that this discovery
that she had made must be kept a secret. If Hill
began to suspect, he would very quickly ferret out
the truth, and the man would be ruined. She knew
Hill’s stern justice. He would act instantly
and without mercy if he knew the truth.

She braced herself with a great effort to baffle him.
“No, oh, no!” she said. “I
am really not tired. Do play! I should love
to see you play.”

He looked sardonic. “Love to see me beaten!”
he said.

She put out a quick hand. “Of course not!
You will beat him easily. You are always on the
top. Do try!”

He smiled a little, and turned from her. She
saw him approach Warden and tap him on the shoulder.

Page 24

Warden wheeled sharply, so sharply that the drink
he held splashed over the edge of the glass.
The excitement in the room was dying down. She
watched the two men with an odd breathlessness, and
in a moment she realized that everyone else present
was watching them also.

Then they both turned towards her, and through a great
singing that suddenly arose in her ears she heard
Adela whisper excitedly, “My dear, he is actually
going to introduce that amazing person to us!”

She sat up with a stiff movement, feeling cold, inanimate,
strangely impotent, and in a moment he was standing
before her with Fletcher, and she heard the latter
introduce her as his “affianced wife.”

Mutely she gave him her hand. It was Adela who
filled in the gap, eager for entertainment, and the
next moment Warden had turned to her, and was talking
in his careless, leisurely fashion. The ordeal
was past, her pulses quieted down again. Yet
she realized that he had not addressed a single word
to her, and the conviction came upon her that not thus
would he have treated one who was a total stranger
to him.

Because of Fletcher, who remained beside her, she
forced herself to join in the conversation, seconding
Adela’s urgent request that the two men would
play.

Warden laughed and looked at Fletcher. “Do
you care to take me on, sir?” he said.

From the other side of the table, Harley uttered his
barking laugh. “Now is your chance, Mr.
Hill! Down him once and for all, and give us the
pleasure of seeing how it’s done!”

There was venom in the words. They were a revelation
to Dot, the almost silent looker-on. It was as
if a flashlight had given her a sudden glimpse of
this man’s soul, showing her bitter enmity—­a
black and cruel hatred—­an implacable yearning
for revenge. She felt as if she had looked down
into the seething heart of a volcano.

Then she heard Hill’s voice. “I am
quite willing to play,” he said.

A buzz of interest went through the room. The
prospective match plainly excited Warden’s many
admirers. They drew together, and she heard some
low-voiced betting begin.

But this was instantly checked by Fletcher. “I’m
not doing it for a gamble,” he said, curtly.
“Please keep your money in your pockets, or
the match is off!”

They looked at him with lowering glances, but they
submitted. It was evident to Dot that they all
stood in considerable awe of him—­all save
Warden, who chalked Hill’s cue with supreme self-assurance,
and then lighted a cigarette without the smallest
hint of embarrassment.

The match began, and though the gambling had been
checked a breathless interest prevailed. Fletcher
Hill’s play was not well known at Trelevan,
but at the very outset it was evident to the most casual
observer that he was a skilled player. He spoke
scarcely at all, and his face was masklike in its
composure, but Dot, watching, knew with that intuition
which of late had begun to grow upon her that he was
grimly set upon obtaining the victory. The knowledge
thrilled her with a strange excitement. She knew
that he was in a fashion desirous of proving himself
in her eyes, that he had entered into the contest
solely for her.

Page 25

As for Warden, she believed he was playing entirely
to please himself. He took an artistic interest
in every stroke, but the ultimate issue of the game
did not seem to enter into his calculation. He
played like a sportsman, sometimes rashly, often brilliantly,
but never selfishly. It was impossible to watch
him with indifference. Even his failures were
sensational. As Adela had said of him, he was
amazing.

Hill’s play was absolutely steady. It lacked
the vitality of the younger man’s, but it had
about it a clockwork species of regularity that Dot
found curiously pleasing to watch. She had not
thought that her interest could be so deeply aroused;
before the game was half through she was as deeply
absorbed as anyone present.

It did not take her long to realize that public sympathy
was entirely on Warden’s side, and it was that
fact more than any other that disposed her in Fletcher’s
favour. She saw that he had a hard fight before
him, for Warden led almost from the beginning, though
with all his brilliancy he never drew very far ahead.
Fletcher kept a steady pace behind him, and she knew
he would not be easily beaten.

Once he came and stood beside her after a very creditable
break, and she slipped a shy hand into his for a few
seconds. His fingers closed upon it in that slow,
inevitable way of his, but he neither spoke nor looked
at her, and she had a feeling that his attention never
for an instant wandered from the job in hand.
She admired him for his concentration, yet would she
have been less than woman had she not felt slighted
by it. He might have given her one look!

Adela was full of enthusiasm for his opponent, and
that also caused her a vague sense of irritation.
She was beginning to feel as if the evening would
never come to an end.

The scoring was by no means slow, however, and the
general interest increased almost to fever pitch as
the finish came in sight. Hill’s steady
progress in the wake of his opponent seemed at length
to disconcert the latter. He began to play wildly,
to attempt impossible things. His supporters
remonstrated without result. He seemed to have
flung away his judgment.

Hill’s score mounted till it reached and passed
his. They were within twenty points of the end
when Warden suddenly missed an easy stroke. A
noisy groan broke from the onlookers, at which he shrugged
his shoulders and laughed. But Hill turned upon
him with a stern reproof.

“You’re playing the fool, Warden,”
he said. “Pull up!”

He spoke with curt command, and the man he addressed
looked at him for a second with raised brows, as if
he would take offence. But in a moment he laughed
again.

“You haven’t beaten me yet, sir,”
he said.

“No,” said Hill. “And I don’t
value—­an easy victory.”

There followed a tense silence while he resumed his
play. Steadily his score mounted, and it seemed
to Dot that there was hostility in the very atmosphere.
She wondered what would happen if he scored the hundred
before his opponent had another chance. She hoped
he would not do so, and yet she did not want to see
him beaten.

Page 26

He did not, but he left off with only three points
to make. Then Warden began to score. Stroke
after stroke he executed with flawless accuracy and
with scarcely a pause, moving to and fro about the
table without lifting his eyes from the balls.
His play was swift and unswerving, his score mounted
rapidly.

Dot watched him spellbound, not breathing. Hill
stood near her, also closely watching, with brows
slightly drawn. Suddenly something impelled her
to look beyond the man at the table, and in the shadow
on the farther side of the room she again saw Harley’s
face, grey, withered-looking, with sunken eyes that
glared forth wolfishly. He was glancing ceaselessly
from Hill to Warden and from Warden to Hill, and the
malice of his glance shocked her inexpressibly.
She had never before seen murderous hate so stamped
upon any countenance.

Instinctively she shrank from the sight, and in that
moment Warden’s eyes were lifted for a second
from the table. Magnetically hers flashed to
meet them. It was instantaneous, inevitable as
the sudden flare of lightning across a dark sky.

He stooped again to play, but in that moment something
had gone out of him. The stroke he attempted
was an easy one; but he missed it hopelessly.

He straightened himself up with a sharp gesture and
looked at Hill. “I am sorry,” he
said.

Hill said nothing whatever. Their scores were
exactly even. With machine-like precision he
took his turn, utterly ignoring the grumbling criticisms
of his adversary’s play that were being freely
expressed around the room. With the utmost steadiness
he made his stroke, scoring two points. Then
there fell a tremendous silence. The choice of
two strokes now lay before him. One was to pocket
his adversary’s ball; the other a long shot
which required considerable skill. He chose the
second without hesitation, hung a moment or two, made
his stroke—­and failed.

A howl of delight went up from the watchers, their
hot partisanship of Warden amounting almost to open
animosity against his opponent. In the midst
of the noise Hill, perfectly calm, contemptuously indifferent,
touched Warden again upon the shoulder, and spoke to
him.

Warden said nothing in reply, but he went to his ball
with a hint of savagery, bent, and almost without
aiming sent it at terrific speed up the table.
It struck first the red, then the white, pocketed the
former, and whizzed therefrom into the opposite pocket.

A yell of delight went up. It was a brilliant
stroke of which any player might have been proud.
But Warden flung down his cue with a gesture of disgust.

“Damnation!” he said, and turned to put
on his coat.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MEETING

The two girls left the billiard-room, shepherded by
Fletcher, almost before the tumult had subsided.
It seemed to Dot that he was anxious about something
and desirous to get them away. But Adela was full
of excited comments and refused to be hurried, stopping
outside to question Hill upon a dozen points regarding
the game while he stood stiffly responding, waiting
to say good-night.

Page 27

Dot leaned upon the stair-rail, waiting for her, and
eventually Fletcher drew Adela’s attention to
the fact.

Adela laughed. “Oh, that’s just her
way, my dear Fletcher. Some women were born to
wait. Dot does it better than anyone I know.”

It was at that moment that Warden came quietly up
the passage from the billiard-room, moving with the
lightness of well-knit muscles, and checked himself
at sight of Fletcher.

“I should like a word with you—­when
you have time,” he said.

Adela swooped upon him with effusion. “Mr.
Warden! Your play is simply astounding.
Allow me to congratulate you!”

“Please don’t!” said Warden.
“I played atrociously.”

She laughed at him archly. “That’s
just your modesty. You’re plainly a champion.
Now, when are you going to let Mr. Hill show us that
wonderful mine? We are dying to see it, aren’t
we, Dot?”

“The mine!” Warden turned sharply to Hill.
“You’re not going to take anyone over
that—­surely! Not in person—­anyhow!
What, sir?” He looked hard at Hill, who said
nothing. “Then you must be mad!”

“He isn’t obliged to go in person,”
smiled Adela. “I am sure you are big enough
to take care of us single-handed. Dot and I are
not in the least nervous. Will you take us alone
if we promise not to tease the animals?”

Warden’s eyes flashed a sudden glance upwards
to the girl who still stood silently leaning upon
the rail. It was almost like an appeal.

As if involuntarily she spoke. “What is
the danger?”

Hill turned to her. “There is no danger,”
he said, curtly. “If you wish to go, I
will take you to-morrow.”

Warden made a brief gesture as of one who submits
to the inevitable, and turned away.

Fletcher held out his hand to Adela with finality.
“Good-night,” he said.

“Are you really going to take us to-morrow?”
she said.

“Yes,” said Fletcher.

She beamed upon him. “What time shall we
be ready?”

He did not refer to Dot. “At five o’clock,”
he said. “I shall be busy at the court
all day. I will come and fetch you.”

He shook hands with Dot, and his face softened.
“Good-night,” he said.
“Go to bed quickly! You’re very tired.”

She gave him a fleeting smile, and turned to go.
She was tired to the soul.

Adela caught her by the arm as they ascended the stairs.
“You little quiet mouse, what’s the matter?
Aren’t you enjoying the adventure?”

“I expect you will,” said Adela.
“But I don’t like your being miserable.
I say, Dot—­” she clasped the quivering
form closer, with a sudden rare flash of intuition—­“there
isn’t—­anyone else you like better,
is there?”

But at that Dot started as if she had been stung,
and drew herself swiftly away. “Oh, no!”
she said, vehemently. “No—­no—­no!”

She kissed her and went to her own room, where she
speedily slept. But Dot lay wide-eyed, unresting,
while the hours crawled by, seeing only the vivid
blue eyes that had looked into hers, and thrilled her—­and
thrilled her with their magic.

In the morning she arose early, urged by a fevered
restlessness that drove her with relentless force.
Dressing, she discovered the loss of a little heart-shaped
brooch, Jack’s gift, which she always wore.

Adela, still lying in bed, assured her that she had
seen it in her dress the previous evening while at
dinner. “It probably came out in that little
conservatory place when Fletcher was embracing you,”
she said.

“Not very likely, I think,” said Dot,
flushing.

Nevertheless, since she valued it, she finished dressing
in haste and departed to search for it.

There was no one about with the exception of a man
who was cleaning up the billiard-room and assured
her that her property was not there. So she passed
on along the passage to the shabby little glass-house
whither she and Fletcher had retreated on the previous
evening.

She expected to find the place deserted, and was surprised
by a whiff of tobacco-smoke as she entered. The
next moment sharply she drew back; for a man’s
figure rose up from the seat under the billiard-room
window on which she had rested the previous evening.
His great frame seemed to fill the place. Dot
turned to flee.

But on the instant he spoke, checking her. “Don’t
go for a moment! I know what you’re looking
for. It’s that little heart of yours.
I’ve got it here.”

She paused almost in spite of herself. His voice
was pitched very low. He spoke to her as if he
were speaking to a frightened child. And he smiled
at her with the words—­a frank and kindly
smile.

Page 29

“You—­you found it!” she stammered.

“Yes, I found it, Miss Burton.” He
lingered over the name half unconsciously, and a poignant
stab of memory went through her. So had he uttered
it on that day so long, so long ago! “I
knew it was yours. I was trying to bring myself
to give it to Mr. Hill.”

“How did you know it was mine?” She almost
whispered the words, yet she drew nearer to him, drawn
irresistibly—­drawn as a needle to the magnet.

He answered her also under his breath. “I—­remembered.”

She felt as if a wave of fire had swept over her.
She swayed a little, throbbing from head to foot.

“I have rather a good memory,” he said,
as she found no words. “You’re not—­vexed
with me on that account, I hope?”

An odd touch of wistfulness in his voice brought her
eyes up to his face. She fought for speech and
answered him.

“Of course not! Why should I? It—­is
a very long time ago, isn’t it?”

“Centuries,” said Warden, and smiled again
upon her reassuringly. “But I never forgot
you and your little farm and the old dog. Have
you still got him?”

She nodded, her eyes lowered, a choked feeling as
of tears in her throat.

“He’d remember me,” said Warden,
with confidence. “He was a friend.
Do you know that was one of the most hairbreadth escapes
of my life? If Fletcher Hill had caught me, he
wouldn’t have shown much mercy—­any
more than he would now,” he added, with a half-laugh.
“He’s a terrific man for justice.”

“Surely you’re safe—­now!”
Dot said, quickly.

“If you don’t give me away,” said
Warden.

“I!” She started, almost winced.
“There’s no danger of that,” she
said, in a low voice.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve
gone fairly straight ever since. It hasn’t
been a very paying game. I tried my luck in the
West, but it was right out. So I thought I’d
come back here, and that was the turning-point.
They took me on at the Fortescue Mine. It’s
a fiendish place, but I rather like it. I’m
sub-manager there at present—­till Harley
goes.”

“Ah!” She looked up at him again.
“He is a dangerous man. He hates you, doesn’t
he?”

“Quite possibly,” said Warden, with a
smile. “That mine is rather an abode of
hate all round. But we’ll clean it out one
of these days, and make a decent place of it.”

“I hope you will succeed,” she said, very
earnestly.

“Thank you,” he said again.

He was looking at her speculatively, as if there were
something about her that he found hard to understand.
Her agitation had subsided, leaving her with a piteous,
forlorn look—­the look of the wayfarer who
is almost too tired to go any farther.

There fell a brief silence between them, then with
a little smile she spoke.

“Are you going to give me back my brooch?”

He put his hand in his pocket. “I was nearly
keeping it for good and all,” he said, as he
brought it out.

Page 30

She took it from him and pinned it in her dress without
words. Then, shyly, she proffered her hand.
“Thank you. Good-bye!”

He drew a short hard breath as he took it into his
own. For a second or two he stood so, absolutely
motionless, his great hand grasping hers. Then,
very suddenly, he stooped to her, looking into her
eyes.

“Good-bye, little new chum!” he said,
softly. “It was—­decent of you
to treat me—­without prejudice.”

The words pierced her. A great tremor went through
her. For an instant the pain was almost intolerable.

The next moment she was running blindly through the
passage, scarcely knowing which way she went, intent
only upon escape.

A man at the foot of the stairs stood aside for her,
and she fled past him without a glance. He turned
and watched her with keen, alert eyes till she was
out of sight. Then, without haste, he took his
way in the direction whence she had come.

But he did not go beyond the threshold of the little
dusty conservatory, for something he saw within made
him draw swiftly back.

When Fletcher Hill went to the court that day, he
was grimmer, colder, more unapproachable even than
was his wont. He had to deal with one or two
minor cases from the gold mine, and the treatment he
meted out was of as severe an order as circumstances
would permit.

CHAPTER IX

THE MINE

The Fortescue Gold Mine was five miles away from Trelevan,
in the heart of wild, barren country, through which
the sound of its great crushing machines whirred perpetually
like the droning of an immense beehive.

The place was strewn with scattered huts belonging
to such of the workers as did not live at Trelevan,
and a yellow stream ran foaming through the valley,
crossed here and there by primitive wooden bridges.

The desolation of the whole scene, save for that running
stream, produced the effect of a world burnt out.
The hills of shale might have been vast heaps of ashes.
It was a waste place of terrible unfruitfulness.
And yet, not very far below the surface, the precious
metal lay buried in the rock—­the secret
of the centuries which man at last had wrenched from
its hiding-place.

The story went that Fortescue, the owner of the mine,
had made his discovery by a mere accident in this
place known as the Barren Valley, and had kept it
to himself for years thereafter because he lacked the
means to exploit it. But later he had returned
with the necessary capital at his back, had staked
his claim, and turned the place of desolation into
an abode of roaring activity. The men he employed
were for the most part drawn from the dregs—­sheep-stealers,
cattle-thieves, smugglers, many of them ex-convicts—­a
fierce, unruly lot, hating all law and order, yet
submitting for the sake of that same precious yellow
dust that they ground from the foundation stones of
the world.

Page 31

Personally, Fortescue was known but to the very few,
but his methods were known to all. He paid them
generously, but he ruled them with a rigid discipline
that knew no relaxation. It was murmured that
Fletcher Hill—­the hated police-magistrate—­was
at his back, for he never failed to visit the mine
when his duty took him in that direction, and there
was something of military precision in its management
which was strongly reminiscent of his forbidding personality.
It was Fletcher Hill who meted out punishment to the
transgressors who were brought before him at the police-court
at Trelevan, and his treatment was usually swift and
unsparing. No prisoner ever expected mercy from
him.

He was hated at the mine with a fierce hatred, in
which Fortescue had but a very minor share. It
was recognized that Fortescue’s methods were
of a decent order, though his lack of personal interest
was resented, and also his friendship with Fletcher
Hill, which some even declared to be a partnership.
The only point in his favour was the fact that Bill
Warden knew the man and never failed to stand up for
him. For some reason Warden possessed an enormous
influence over the men. His elevation to the
sub-managership had been highly popular, and his projected
promotion to the post of manager, now filled by Harley,
gave them immense satisfaction. He had the instincts
of a sportsman and knew how to handle them, and a
personality, that was certainly magnetic, did the rest.

Harley had a certain following, but the general feeling
towards him was one of contempt. Most men recognized
that he was nothing but a self-seeker, and there were
few who trusted him. He did his best to achieve
popularity, but his efforts were too obvious.
Bill Warden’s breezy indifference held an infinitely
greater appeal in the eyes of the crowd.

Harley’s resignation was of his own choosing.
He declared himself in need of a rest, and no one
attempted to persuade him otherwise. His day was
over, and Warden’s succession to the post seemed
an inevitable sequence. As Hill sardonically
remarked, there was no other competitor for the chieftainship
of that band of cutthroats.

For some reason he had postponed his departure till
after Hill’s official visit to Trelevan.
He and Warden shared the largest house in the miners’
colony in Barren Valley. It was close to the mine
at the end of the valley, and part of it was used
as the manager’s office. It overlooked
the yellow torrent and the black wall of mountain beyond—­a
savage prospect that might have been hewn from the
crater of a dead volcano.

A rough track led to it, winding some twenty feet
above the stream, and up this track Fletcher Hill
drove the two visitors on the evening of the day succeeding
their arrival at Trelevan.

There was a deadness of atmosphere between those rocky
walls that struck chill even to Adela’s inconsequent
soul. “What a ghastly place!” she
commented. “I should think Ezekiel’s
valley of dry bones must have been something like
this.”

Page 32

Harley met them at the door of his office with a smile
in his crafty eyes. “Warden is waiting
for you in the mine,” he said to Fletcher.
“His lambs have been a bit restless this afternoon.
He has set his heart on a full-dress parade, but I
don’t know if it will come off.”

Fletcher’s black brows drew together. “What
do you mean by that?” he demanded.

Harley shrugged his shoulders with a laugh. “You
wait and see!”

The entrance to the mine yawned like an immense cavern
in the rock. The roaring screech of the machines
issuing from it made an inferno of sound from which,
involuntarily, Dot shrank.

She looked at Hill appealingly as they drew near.
He turned instantly to Harley.

“Go ahead, will you, and tell them to stop work?
We can’t hear ourselves speak in this.”

“I’ll come with you, Mr. Harley,”
said Adela, promptly. “I want to see the
machines going.”

Harley paused for a moment. “You know your
way, Mr. Hill?” he said.

Hill nodded with a hint of impatience. “Yes,
yes. I was here only the other day.”

“Very good,” said Harley. “But
don’t forget to turn to the right when you get
down the steps. The other way is too steep for
ladies.”

He was gone with the words and Adela with him, openly
delighted to have escaped from her solemn escort,
and ready for any adventure that might present itself.

Dot looked after her for a moment, and then back at
Hill. “She’ll be all right, won’t
she?” she asked.

“Of course she will!” said Hill.

“Then shall we wait a minute till the noise
stops?” she suggested.

Hill paused, though not very willingly. “There
is nothing to be nervous about,” he said.

She glanced at the cavernous opening with a little
shudder. “I think it is a dreadful place,”
she said.

She saw him faintly smile. “I thought it
didn’t appeal much to you,” he said.

She shivered. “Do you like it? But
of course you do. You are interested in it.
Isn’t that grinding noise terrible? It makes
me want to run away and hide.”

Hill drew her to a large flat rock on the edge of
the path. “Sit down,” he said.

She did so, and he took up his stand beside her, one
foot lodged upon the stone. In the silence that
followed she was aware of his eyes upon her, intently
watching her face. She gripped her hands hard
around her knees, enduring his scrutiny with a fast-throbbing
heart. She expected some curt, soul-searching
question at the end of it. But none came.
Instead, the noise that reverberated through the valley
suddenly ceased, and there fell an intense stillness.

That racked her beyond bearing. She looked up
at him at last with a desperate courage and met his
eyes. “What is it?” she questioned.
“Why do you—­why do you look at me—­like
that?”

He made a brief gesture, as if refusing a challenge,
and stood up. “Shall we go?” he said.

Page 33

She got up also, but her knees were trembling, and
in a moment his hand came out and closed with that
official grip upon her elbow. He led her to the
mine entrance guiding her over the rough ground in
utter silence.

They left the daylight behind them, passing almost
immediately into semi-darkness. Some rough steps
hewn in the rock led down into a black void before
them.

“Are there no lights anywhere?” said Dot.

“Yes. There’ll be a lamp round the
corner. Straight on down!” said Fletcher.

But for his presence she would hardly have dared it,
so great was the horror that this place had inspired
within her. But to wait alone with him in that
terrible empty valley was even less endurable.
She went down the long, steep stair without further
protest.

They reached the foot at length, and a dim light shone
ahead of them. The atmosphere was vault-like
and penetratingly damp. The passage divided almost
immediately, and a narrow track led off between black
walls of stone to the right, where in the distance
another lamp shone.

Hill paused in response to her urgent insistence.
“What’s the matter with you, Dot?”
he said.

She clung to him desperately, still holding him back.
“I don’t know—­I don’t
know! But don’t go that way! I have
a horrible feeling—­Ah!” The deafening
report of a revolver-shot rang out suddenly close to
them.

Hill turned with a sound in his throat like the growl
of an angry animal, and in a moment he had thrust
Dot back against the protecting corner of the wall.

“You are not hurt?” she gasped.

“No; I am not.” His words fell clipped
and stern, though spoken scarcely above a whisper.
“Don’t speak! Get back up the steps—­as
quickly as you can!”

The command was so definite, so peremptory, that she
had no thought of disobeying. But as she moved
there came to her the sound of running feet.
Hill stayed her with a gesture. She saw something
gleam in his hand as he did so, and realized that
he was not defenceless.

Her heart seemed to spring into her throat. She
stood tense.

Nearer came the feet and nearer. The suspense
of waiting was torture. She thought it would
never end. Then suddenly, just as she looked to
see a man spring from the opening of that narrow passage,
they stopped.

A voice spoke. “All right! Don’t
shoot!” it said, and a great throb of amazement
went through her. That voice—­careless,
debonair, half-laughing—­awoke deep echoes
in her heart.

A moment later Warden came calmly round the corner,
his great figure looming gigantic in that confined
space.

He held out his hand. “I’m sorry
you’ve had a fright. I fired that shot.
It was a signal to the men to line up for inspection.”

Page 34

He spoke with the utmost frankness, yet it came to
Dot with an intuition she could not doubt that Hill
did not believe him. He returned the revolver
to his pocket, but he kept a hold upon it, and he made
no movement to take the hand Warden offered.

“We came to inspect the mine, not the men,”
he said, shortly. “Go back and tell them
to clear out!”

Dot, mutely watching, saw Warden’s brows go
up. He had barely glanced at her. “Oh,
all right, sir,” he said, easily. “They’ve
hardly left off work yet. I’ll let ’em
know in good time. But first I’ve got something
to show you. Come this way!”

He turned towards the main passage, but in a second,
sharp and short, Fletcher’s voice arrested him.

“Warden!”

He swung on his heel. “Well, sir?”

“You will do as I said—­immediately!”
The words might have been uttered by a machine, so
precise, so cold, so metallic were they.

Warden stood quite motionless, facing him, and it
seemed to Dot that his eyes had become two blue flames,
giving out light. The pause that followed was
so instinct with conflict that she thought it must
end in some terrible outburst of violence.

Then, to her amazement, Warden smiled—­his
candid, pleasant smile. “Certainly, if
you make a point of it,” he said. “Perhaps
you will walk up with me. The strong-room is
on our way, and while you are looking at the latest
specimens I will carry out your orders.”

He turned back with the words, and led the way towards
the distant lamp that glimmered in the wall.

Stiffly Hill turned to the girl beside him. “Would
you rather go back and wait for me?” he said.

“Oh, no!” she said, instantly. “No;
I am coming too.”

He said no more, but grimly stalked in the wake of
Warden.

The latter moved quickly till he reached the place
where the lamp was lodged in a niche in the wall.
Here he stopped, stooped, and fitted a key into a
narrow door that had been let into the stone.
It opened outwards, and he drew aside, waiting for
Hill.

“I will go and dismiss the men,” he said.
“May I leave you in charge till I come back?
They will not come this way.”

Hill paused on the threshold. The lamp cast a
dim light into the place, which was close and gloomy
as a prison.

“There are two steps down,” said Warden.
“One of them is badly broken, but it’s
worth your while to go in and have a look at our latest
finds. You had better go first, sir. Be
careful!”

He turned to depart with the words, still ignoring
Dot. She was close to Hill, and something impelled
her to lay a restraining hand on his shoulder as he
took the first step down.

What followed happened with such stunning swiftness
that her memory of it ever afterwards was a confused
jumble of impressions, like the wild course of a nightmare.

Page 35

She heard Warden swing round again in his tracks,
but before she could turn he had caught her and flung
her backwards over his arm. With his other hand
simultaneously he dealt Hill a blow in the back that
sent him blundering down into the darkness, and then,
with lightning rapidity, he banged the door upon his
captive. The lock sprang with the impact, but
he was not content with this. Still holding her,
he dragged at a rough handle above his head and by
main strength forced down an iron shutter over the
locked door.

Then, breathing hard and speaking no word, he lifted
her till she hung across his shoulder, and started
to run. She had not uttered a sound, so stunned
with amazement was she, so bereft of even the power
to think. Her position was one of utter helplessness.
He held her with one arm as easily as if she had been
a baby. And she knew that in his free hand he
carried his revolver.

In her bewilderment she had not the faintest idea
as to the direction he took. She only knew that
he ran like a hunted rat down many passages, turning
now this way, now that, till at last he plunged down
an unseen stairway and the sound of gurgling water
reached her ears.

He slackened his pace then, and at last stood still.
He did not alter his hold upon her, however, but stood
listening intently for many seconds. She hung
impotent across his shoulder, feeling still too paralyzed
to move.

He turned his head at last and spoke to her.
“Have I terrified the senses out of you, little
new chum?” he whispered, softly.

That awoke her from her passivity. She made her
first effort for freedom.

He drew her down into his arms and held her close.

“Right down,” she said, insistently.

But he held her still. “If I let you go,
you’ll wander maybe, and get lost,” he
said.

His action surprised her, but yet that instinctive
trust with which he had inspired her long ago remained,
refusing to be shaken.

“Put me right down!” she said again.
“And tell me why you did it!”

He set her on her feet, but he still held her.
“Can’t you guess?” he said.

“No!” she said. “No!”

She spoke a little wildly. Was it the first doubt
that ran shadow—­like across her brain,
leaving her so strangely cold? She wished it had
not been so dark, that she might see his face.
“Tell me!” she said again.

But he did not tell her. “Don’t be
afraid!” was all he said in answer. “You
are—­safe enough.”

“But—­but—­Fletcher?”
she questioned, desperately. “What of him?”

“He’s safe too—­for the present.”
There was something of grimness in his reply.
“He doesn’t matter so much. He’s
been asking for trouble all along—­but he
had no right—­no right whatever—­to
bring you into it. It’s you that matters.”

A curious, vibrant quality had crept into his voice,
and an answering tremor went through her; but she
controlled it swiftly.

Page 36

“And Adela,” she said. “She
was with Mr. Harley. What has become of her?”

“He will take care of her for his own sake.
Leave her to him!” Warden spoke with a hint
of disdain. “She’ll get nothing worse
than a fright,” he said, “possibly not
even that—­if he gets her to the manager’s
house in time.”

“In time!” she echoed. “In
time for what? What is going to happen? What
do you mean?”

His hold tightened upon her. “Well,”
he said, “there’s going to be a row.
But I’m boss of this show, and I reckon I can
deal with it. Only—­I’ll have
you safe first, little new chum. I’m not
taking any chances where you are concerned.”

She gasped a little. The steady assurance of
his voice stirred her strangely.

She tried to release herself from his hold. “I
don’t like this place,” she said.
“Let me go back to Mr. Hill.”

“That’s just what I can’t do.”
He bent suddenly down to her. “Won’t
you trust me?” he said. “I didn’t
fail you last time, did I?”

She thrilled in answer to those words. It was
as if thereby he had flung down all barriers between
them. She stood for a moment in indecision, then
impulsively she turned and grasped his arms.

He, too, was silent for a moment before responding.
She fancied that he flinched a little at her words.
Then: “All right, I promise,” he said.

“Then I will go—­wherever you like,”
she said, bravely, and put her hand into his.

He took it into a strong grasp. “That’s
like you,” he said, with simplicity.

CHAPTER X

THE GREATER LOVE

Through a labyrinth of many passages he led her, over
ground that was often rough and slimy with that sound
of running water in their ears, sometimes near, sometimes
distant, but never wholly absent. Now and then
a gleam of light would come from some distant crevice,
and Dot would catch a glimpse of the rocky corridor
through which they moved—­catch a glimpse
also of her companion walking with his free stride
beside her, though occasionally he had to stoop when
the roof was low. He did not look at her, seldom
spoke to her, but the grasp of his hand held her up
and kept all fear at bay. Somehow fear in this
man’s presence seemed impossible.

A long time passed, and she was sure that they had
traversed a considerable distance before, very far
ahead of them at the end of a steep upward slope,
she discerned a patch of sky.

“Is that where we are going?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

She gazed before her, puzzled. “But where
are we? Are we still in the mine?”

“No. This is the smugglers’ warren.”
She caught a hint of humour in his voice. “The
stream flows underground all through here—­and
very useful we have found it.”

Page 37

She gave a great start at his words. “You—­you
are not a smuggler!” she said.

He drew her on. “I am a good many things,”
he said, easily, “and the king of this rat-run
amongst them. There’s no one knows it as
well as I do.”

Her heart sank. “You said—­you
said yesterday—­you had lived straight!”
she said, in a low voice.

“Did I? But what does it matter to you
how I live?” With a touch of recklessness he
put the question. “If Fletcher Hill managed
to put the official seal on me, what would it matter
to you—­now?”

There was almost a note of anger in his voice, yet
his hand still held hers in the same close, reassuring
grasp. She could not be afraid.

“It would matter,” she said at last.

“I wonder why?” said Bill Warden.

“Because—­we are friends,” she
said.

He made a sharp sound as of dissent, but he did not
openly contradict her. They were nearing the
opening, and the ground was rough and broken.
She stumbled once or twice, and each time he held her
up. Finally they came to a flight of steps that
were little more than notches cut steeply in the rock.

“I shall have to carry you here,” he said.

Dot looked upwards with sharp dismay. The rocky
wall rose twenty feet above her, the rough-hewn steps
slanting along its face. For the first time her
heart misgave her.

“What a dreadful place!” she said.

“It’s the only way out,” said Warden,
“unless we tramp underground nearly half-way
to Wallacetown!”

“Can’t we go back?” she said, nervously.

“What! Afraid?” He gave her hand
a sudden squeeze.

She looked at him and caught the blue fire of his
eyes as he bent towards her. Something moved
her, she knew not what. She surrendered herself
to him without a word.

Once more she hung upon his shoulder, clinging desperately,
while he made that perilous ascent. He went up
with amazing agility, as if he were entirely unencumbered.
She felt the strength of his great frame beneath her,
and marvelled. Again the magnetic force of the
man possessed her, stilling all fear. She shut
her eyes dizzily, but she was not afraid.

When she looked up again they were in the open.
He had set her on her feet, and she stood on the rugged
side of a mountain where no vestige of a path or any
habitation showed in any direction. For the first
time he had relinquished all hold upon her, and stood
apart, almost as if he would turn and leave her.

The brief twilight was upon them. It was as if
dark wings were folding them round. A small chill
wind was wandering to and fro. She shivered involuntarily.
It sounded like the whispering of an evil spirit.
The fear she had kept at bay for so long laid clammy
hands upon her.

Instinctively she turned to the man for protection.
“How shall we get away?” she said.

Page 38

He moved sharply, so sharply that for a single moment
she thought that something had angered him. And
then—­all in one single blinding instant—­she
realized that which no words could utter. For
he caught her swiftly to him, lifting her off her
feet, and very suddenly he covered her face and neck
and throat with hot, devouring kisses—­kisses
that electrified her—­kisses that seemed
to scorch and blister—­yet to fill her with
a pulsing rapture that was almost too great to endure.

She tried to hide her face from him, but she could
not; to protest, but his lips stopped the words upon
her own. She was powerless—­and very
deep down within her there leaped a wild thing that
rejoiced—­that exulted—­in her
powerlessness.

The fierce storm spent itself. There came a pause
during which she lay palpitating against his breast
while his cheek pressed hers in a stillness that was
in a fashion more compelling than even those burning
kisses had been.

He spoke to her at last, and his voice was deep and
tender, throbbing with that which was beyond utterance.

“You love me, little new chum,” he said.

There was no question in his words. She quivered,
and made no answer. That headlong outburst of
passion had overwhelmed her utterly. She was
as drift upon the tide.

He drew a great heaving breath, and clasped her closer.
His words fell hot upon her face. “You
are mine! Why shouldn’t I keep you?
Fate has given you to me. I’d be a fool
to let you go again.”

But something—­some inner impulse that had
been stunned to impotence by his violence—­stirred
within her at his words and awoke. Yet it was
scarcely of her own volition that she answered him.
“I am—­not—­yours.”

Very faintly the words came from her trembling lips,
but the utterance of them gave her new strength.
She moved at last in his hold. She turned her
face away from him.

“What do you mean?” He spoke in a fierce
whisper, but—­she felt it instinctively—­there
was less of assurance in his hold. It was that
that added to her strength, but she offered no active
resistance, realizing wherein lay his weakness—­and
her own.

“I mean,” she said, and though it still
trembled beyond her control, her voice gathered confidence
with the words, “that by taking me—­by
keeping me—­you are taking—­keeping—­what
is not your own.”

But the clearer vision had come to her. She shook
her head against his shoulder. “No—­no!
That is wrong. That is not—­the greater
love.”

“What do you mean by—­the greater
love?” He was holding her still closely, but
no longer with that fierce possession.

She answered him with a steadiness that surprised
herself: “I mean the only love that is
worth having—­the love that lasts.”

He caught up the words passionately. “And
hasn’t my love lasted? Have I ever thought
of any other woman since the day I met you? Haven’t
I been fighting against odds ever since to be able
to come to you an honest man—­and worthy
of your love?”

Page 39

“Oh, I know—­I know!” she said,
and there was a sound of heartbreak in her voice.
“But—­the odds have been too heavy.
I thought you had forgotten—­long ago.”

“Forgotten!” he said.

“Yes.” With a sob she answered him.
“Men do forget—­nearly all of them.
Fletcher Hill didn’t. He kept on waiting,
and—­and—­they said it wasn’t
fair—­to spoil a man’s life for a dream—­that
could never come true. So—­I gave in
at last. I am—­promised to him.”

“Against your will?” His arms tightened
upon her again. “Tell me, little new chum!
Was it against your will?”

“No! Oh, no!” She whispered the words
through tears. “I gave in—­willingly.
I thought it was better than—­an empty life.”

“Ah!” The word fell like a groan.
“And that’s what you’re going to
condemn me to, is it?”

She turned in his arms, summoning her strength.
“We’ve got to play the game,” she
said. “I’ve got to keep my word—­whatever
it costs. And you—­you are going to
keep yours.”

“My word?” he questioned, swiftly.

“Yes.” She lifted her head.
“If—­if you really care about being
honest—­if your love is worth—­anything
at all—­that is the only way. You promised—­you
promised—­to save him.”

“Save him for you?” he said.

“Yes—­save him for me.”
She did not know how she uttered the words, but somehow
they were spoken.

They went into a silence that wrung her soul, and
it cost her every atom of her strength not to recall
them.

Bill Warden stood quite motionless for many pulsing
seconds, then—­very, very slowly—­at
length his hold began to slacken.

In the end he set her on her feet—­and she
was free. “All right, little new chum!”
he said, and she heard a new note in his voice—­a
note that waked in her a wild impulse to spring back
into his arms and cling to him—­and cling
to him. “I’ll do it—­for
you—­if it kills me—­just to show
you—­little girl—­just to show
you—­what my love for you is really worth.”

He stood a moment, facing her; then his hands clenched
and he turned away.

“Let’s go down the hill!” he said.
“I’ll see you in safety first.”

CHAPTER XI

WITHOUT CONDITIONS

In the midst of a darkness that could be felt Fletcher
Hill stood, grimly motionless, waiting. He knew
that strong-room, had likened it to a condemned cell
every time he had entered it, and with bitter humour
he told himself that he had put his own neck into the
noose with a vengeance this time.

Not often—­if ever—­before had
he made the fatal mistake of trusting one who was
untrustworthy. He would not have dreamed of trusting
Harley, for instance. But for some reason he
had chosen to repose his confidence in Warden, and
now it seemed that he was to pay the price of his rashness.
It was that fact that galled him far more than the
danger with which he was confronted. That he,

Page 40

Fletcher Hill—­the Bloodhound—­ever
wary and keen of scent, should have failed to detect
a ruse so transparent—­this inflicted
a wound that his pride found it hard to sustain.
Through his lack of caution he had forfeited his own
freedom, if not his life, and exposed Dot to a risk
from the thought of which even his iron nerve shrank.
He told himself repeatedly, with almost fierce emphasis,
that Dot would be safe, that Warden could not be such
a hound as to fail her; but deep within him there
lurked a doubt which he would have given all he had
to be able to silence. The fact remained that
through his negligence she had been left unprotected
in an hour of great danger.

Within the narrow walls of his prison there was no
sound save the occasional drip of water that oozed
through the damp rock. He might have been penned
in a vault, and the darkness that pressed upon him
seemed to crush the senses, making difficult coherent
thought. There was nothing to be done but to
wait, and that waiting was the worst ordeal that Fletcher
Hill had ever been called upon to face.

A long time passed—­how long he had no means
of gauging. He stood like a sentinel, weapon
in hand, staring into the awful darkness, struggling
against its oppression, fighting to keep his brain
alert and ready for any emergency. He thought
he was prepared for anything, but that time of waiting
tried his endurance to the utmost, and when at length
a sound other than that irregular drip of water came
through the deathly stillness he started with a violence
that sent a smile of self-contempt to his lips.

It was a wholly unexpected sound—­just the
ordinary tones of a man’s voice speaking to
him through the darkness where he had believed that
there was nothing but a blank wall.

“Mr. Hill, where are you?” it said.
“I have come to get you out.”

Hill’s hand tightened upon his revolver.
He was not to be taken unawares a second time.
He stood in absolute silence, waiting.

There was a brief pause, then again came the voice.
“There’s not much point in shooting me.
You’ll probably starve if you do. So watch
out! I’m going to show a light.”

Hill still stood without stirring a muscle. His
back was to the door. He faced the direction
of the voice.

Suddenly, like the glare from an explosion, a light
flashed in his eyes, blinding him after the utter
dark. He flinched from it in spite of himself,
but the next moment he was his own master again, erect
and stern, contemptuously unafraid.

“Don’t shoot!” said Bill Warden,
with a gleam of his teeth, “or maybe you’ll
shoot a friend!”

He was standing empty-handed save for the torch he
carried, his great figure upright against the wall,
facing Hill with speculation in his eyes.

Hill lowered his revolver. “I doubt it,”
he said, grimly.

“Ah! You don’t know me yet, do you?”
said Warden, a faintly jeering note in his voice.

Page 41

He moved slowly forward, throwing the light before
him as he did so. The place had been blasted
out of the rock, and here and there the stone shone
smooth as marble where the charge had gone. Rough
shelves had been hewn in the walls, leaving divisions
between, and on some of these were stored bags of
the precious metal that had been ground out of the
ore. There was no sign anywhere of any entrance
save the iron-bound door behind Hill.

Straight in front of him Warden stopped. They
stood face to face.

“Well?” Warden said. “What
do you know of me?”

Hill’s eyes were as steel. He stood stiff
as a soldier on parade. He answered curtly, without
a hint of emotion. “I know enough to get
you arrested when this—­farce—­is
over.”

“Oh, you call this a farce, do you?” Bill
Warden’s words came slowly from lips that strangely
smiled. “And when does—­the fun
begin?”

Hill’s harsh face was thrown into strong relief
by the flare of the torch. It was as flint confronting
the other man. “Do you really imagine that
I regard this sort of Forty Thieves business seriously?”
he said.

“I imagine it is pretty serious so far as you
are concerned,” said Warden. “You’re
in about the tightest hole you’ve ever been in
in your life. And it’s up to me to get
you out—­or to leave you. Do you understand
that?”

“Oh, quite,” said Fletcher Hill, sardonically.
“But—­let me tell you at the outset—­you
won’t find me specially easy to bargain with
on that count—­Mr. Buckskin Bill.”

Bill Warden threw up his head with a gesture of open
defiance. “I’m not doing any—­bargaining,”
he said. “And as to arresting me—­afterwards—­you
can do as you please. But now—­just
now—­you are in my power, and you’re
going to play my game. Got that?”

“I can see myself doing it,” said Fletcher
Hill.

“Yes, you will do it.” A sudden deep
note of savagery sounded in Warden’s voice.
“Not to save your own skin, Mr. Fletcher Hill,
but for the sake of—­something more valuable
than that—­something more precious even than
your cussed pride. You’ll do it for the
sake of the girl you’re going to marry.
And you’ll do it—­now.”

“Shall I?” said Fletcher Hill.

Bill Warden’s hand suddenly came forth and gripped
him by the shoulder. “Damn you!”
he said. “Do you think I want to save your
life?”

The words were low, spoken with a concentrated passion
more terrible than open violence. He looked closely
into Hill’s eyes, and his own were flaming like
the eyes of a baited animal.

Hill looked straight back at him without the stirring
of an eyelid. “Take your hand off me!”
he said.

It was the word of the superior officer. Warden’s
hand fell as it were mechanically. There followed
a tense silence.

Warden made a sharp movement. “I did it
to save your life,” he said. “You’d
have died like a dog within ten seconds if I hadn’t
turned you back.”

Page 42

A curious expression crossed Hill’s strong countenance.
It was almost a smile of understanding. “I
am—­indebted to you—­boss,”
he said, and with the words very calmly he took his
revolver by the muzzle and held it out. “I
surrender to you—­without conditions.”

Bill Warden gave a sharp start of surprise. For
an instant he hesitated, then in silence he took the
weapon and dropped it into his pocket. A moment
longer he looked Fletcher Hill straight in the eyes,
then swung upon his heel.

“We’ll get out of this infernal hole straight
away,” he said, and, stooping, gripped his fingers
upon a ridge of stone that ran close to the floor.
The stone swung inward under his grasp, leaving a dark
aperture gaping at his feet. Bill glanced backwards
at his prisoner.

The smile still hovered in the latter’s eye.
“After you, Mr. Buckskin Bill!” he said,
ceremoniously.

And in silence Bill led the way.

CHAPTER XII

THE BOSS OF BARREN VALLEY

“Oh, my dear!” gasped Adela. “I’ve
had the most terrifying adventure. I thought
I should never see you again. The men are all
on strike, and they’ve sworn to kill Fletcher
Hill, only no one knows where he is. What became
of him? Has he got away?”

“I don’t know,” Dot said.

She sank into the nearest chair in the ill-lighted
manager’s office, and leaned her white face
in her hand.

“Perhaps he has been murdered already,”
said Adela. “Mr. Harley is very anxious
about him. He can’t hold them. And—­Dot—­just
think of it!—­Warden—­the man
we saw yesterday, the sub-manager—­is at
their head. I saw him myself. He had a revolver
in his hand. You were with Fletcher Hill.
You must know what became of him!”

“No, I don’t know,” said Dot.
“We—­parted—­a long time
ago.”

“How odd you are!” said Adela. “Why,
what is the matter? Are you going to faint?”
She went to the girl and bent over her, frightened
by her look. “What is the matter, Dot?
What has happened to you? You haven’t been
hurt?”

“He—­brought me most of the way—­Mr.
Warden,” Dot said. “He has gone now
to save—­Fletcher Hill.”

“To shoot him, more likely,” said Adela.
“He has posted sentinels all round the mine
to catch him. I wonder if we are safe here!
Mr. Harley said it was a safe place. But I wonder.
Shall we make a bolt for it, Dot? Shall we?
Shall we?”

“I shall stay here,” Dot answered.

Adela was not even listening. “We are only
two defenceless women, and there isn’t a man
to look after us. What shall we do if—­Ah!
Heavens! What is that?”

A fearful sound had cut short her speculations—­a
fiendish yelling as of a pack of wolves leaping upon
their prey. Dot sat up swiftly. Adela cowered
in a corner.

Page 43

The terrible noise continued, appalling in its violence.
It swept like a wave towards the building, drowning
the roar of the stream below. The girl at the
table rose and went to the closed door. She gripped
a revolver in her right hand. With her left she
reached for the latch.

“Don’t open it!” gasped Adela.

But Dot paid no heed. She lifted the latch and
flung wide the door. Her slim figure stood outlined
against the lamp-light behind her. Before her
in a white glare of moonlight lay the vault-like entrance
of the mine at the head of Barren Valley, and surging
along the black, scarred side of the hill there came
a yelling crowd of miners. They were making straight
for the open door, but at the sight of the girl standing
there they checked momentarily and the shouting died
down.

She faced the foremost of them without a tremor.
“What is it?” she demanded, in a clear,
ringing voice. “What are you wanting?”

A man with the shaggy face of a baboon answered her.
“You’ve got that blasted policeman in
there. You stick up that gun of yours and let
us pass! We’ve got guns of our own, so
that won’t help.”

She confronted him with scorn. “Do you
imagine I’m afraid of you and your guns?
There’s no one here except another woman.
Are you out to fight women to-night?”

“That’s a lie!” he made prompt response.
“You’ve got Fletcher Hill in there, or
I’m a nigger. You let us pass!”

But still she blocked the way, her revolver pointing
straight at him. “Fletcher Hill is not
here. And you won’t come in unless Mr. Warden
says so. He is not here either at present.
But he is coming. And I will shoot any man who
tries to force his way in first.”

“Damnation!” growled the shaggy-faced
one and wheeled upon his comrades. “What
do you say to that, boys? Going to let a woman
run this show?”

A chorus of curses answered him, but still no one
raised a revolver against the slender figure that
opposed them. Only, after a moment, a cur in
the background picked up a stone and flung it.
It struck the doorpost, narrowly missing her shoulder.
Dot did not flinch, but immediately, with tightened
lips, she raised the revolver and fired over their
heads.

A furious outburst followed the explosion, and in
an instant a dozen revolvers were levelled at her.
But in that same instant there came a sound like the
roar of a lion from behind the building, and with it
Warden’s great figure leapt out into the moonlight.

“You damned ruffians!” he yelled.
“You devils! What are you doing?”

His anger was in a fashion superb. It dwarfed
the anger of the crowd. They gave way before
him like a herd of beasts. He sprang in front
of the girl, raging like a man possessed.

“You gang of murderers! You hounds!
You dirty swine! Get back, do you hear?
I’m the boss of this show, and what I say goes,
or, if it doesn’t, I’ll know the reason
why. Benson—­you dog! What’s
the meaning of this? Do you think I’ll
have under me any coward that will badger a woman?”

Page 44

The man he addressed looked at him with a cowed expression
on his hairy face. “I never wanted to interfere
with her,” he growled. “But she’s
protecting that damned policeman. It’s her
own fault for getting in our way.”

“You’re wrong then!” flashed back
Warden. “Fletcher Hill is under my protection,
not hers. He has surrendered to me as my prisoner.”

“You’ve, got him?” shouted a score
of voices.

“Yes, I’ve got him.” Rapidly
Warden made answer. “But I’m not going
to hand him over to you to be murdered out of hand.
If I’m boss of Barren Valley, I’ll be
boss. So if any of you are dissatisfied you’ll
have to reckon with me first. Fletcher Hill is
my prisoner, and I’ll see to it that he has
a fair trial. Got that?”

A low murmur went round. The magnetism of the
man was making itself felt. He had that electric
force which sways the multitude against all reason.
Single-handed, he gripped them with colossal assurance.
They shrank from the flame of his wrath like beaten
dogs.

“And before we deal with him,” he went
on, “there’s someone else to be reckoned
with. And that’s Harley. Does anyone
know where Harley is?”

“What do you want with Harley?” asked
Benson, glad of this diversion.

“Oh, just to tell him what I think of him, and
then—­to kick him out!” With curt
contempt Warden threw his answer. “He’s
a traitor and a skunk—­smuggles spirits
one minute and goes to the police to sell his chums
the next; then back to his chums again to sell the
police. I know. I’ve been watching
him for some time, the cur. He’d shoot me
if he dared.”

“He’d better!” yelled a huge miner
in the middle of the crowd.

Warden laughed. “That you, Nixon?
Come over here! I’ve got something to tell
you—­and the other boys. It’s
the story of this blasted mine.” He turned
suddenly to the girl who still stood behind him in
the lighted doorway. “Miss Burton, I’d
like you to hear it too. Shut the door and stand
by me!”

Her shining eyes were on his face. She obeyed
him mutely, with a submission as unquestioning as
that of the rough crowd in front of them.

Very gently he took the revolver from her, drew one
out of his own pocket also, and handed both to the
big man called Nixon who had come to his side.

“You look after these!” he said.

“One is my property. The other belongs
to Fletcher Hill—­who is my prisoner.
Now, boys, you’re armed. I’m not.
You won’t shoot the lady, I know. And for
myself I’ll take my chance.”

“Guess you won’t be any the worse for
that,” grinned Nixon, at his elbow.

Warden’s smile gleamed for an instant in answer,
but he passed swiftly on. “Did you ever
hear of a cattle-thief called Buckskin Bill? He
flourished in these parts some five years ago.
There was no mine in Barren Valley then. It was
just—­a smugglers’ stronghold.”

Some of the men in front of him stirred uneasily.
“What’s this to do with Fletcher Hill?”
asked one.

Page 45

“I’ll tell you,” said Warden.
“Buckskin Bill, the cattle-thief, was in a tight
corner, and he took refuge in Barren Valley. He
found the smugglers’ cache—­and
he found something else that the smugglers didn’t
know of. He found—­gold. It’s
a queer thing, boys, but he’d decided—­for
private reasons—­to give up the cattle-lifting
just two days before. The police were hot after
him, but they didn’t catch him and the smugglers
didn’t catch him either. He dodged ’em
all, and when he left he said to himself, ‘I’ll
be the boss of Barren Valley when I come back.’
After that he went West and starved a bit in the Australian
desert till the cattle episode had had time to blow
over. Then—­it’s nearly two years
ago now—­he came back. The first person
he ran into was—­Fletcher Hill, the policeman.”

He paused with that dramatic instinct which was surely
part-secret of his fascination. He had caught
the full attention of the crowd, and held them spellbound.

In a moment he went on. “That gave him
an idea. Hill, of course, was after other game
by that time and didn’t spot him. Hill was
a magistrate and a civil power at Wallacetown.
So Bill went to him, knowing he was straight, anyway,
and told him about the gold in Barren Valley, explaining,
bold as brass, that he couldn’t run the show
himself for lack of money. Boys, it was a rank
speculation, but Hill was a sport. He caught
on. He came to Barren Valley, and they tinkered
round together, and they found gold. That same
night they came upon the smugglers, too—­only
escaped running into them by a miracle. Hill didn’t
say much. He’s not a talker. But after
they got back to Wallacetown he made an offer to Buckskin
Bill which struck him as being a very sporting proposition
for a policeman. He said, ’If you care to
take on Barren Valley and make an honest concern of
it, I’ll get the grant and do the backing.
The labour is there,’ he said, ’but it’s
got to be honest labour or I won’t touch it.’
It was a sporting offer, boys, and, of course, Bill
jumped. And so a contract was drawn up which had
to be signed. And ‘What’s your name?’
said Fletcher Hill.” Warden suddenly began
to laugh. “On my oath, he didn’t
know what to say, so he just caught at the first honest-sounding
name he could think of. ‘Fortescue,’
he said. Hill didn’t ask a single question.
’Then that mine shall be called the Fortescue
Gold Mine,’ he said. ‘And you’ll
work it and make an honest man’s job of it.’
It was a pretty big undertaking, but it sort of appealed
to Buckskin Bill, and he took it on. The only
real bad mistake he made was when he trusted Harley.
Except for that, the thing worked—­and worked
well. The smuggling trade isn’t what it
was, eh, boys? That’s because Fortescue—­and
Fletcher Hill—­are using up the labour for
the mine. And you may hate ’em like hell,
but you can’t get away from the fact that this
mine is run fair and decent, and there isn’t
a man here who doesn’t stand a good chance of

Page 46

making his fortune if he plays a straight game.
It’s been a chance to make good for every one
of us, and it’s thanks to Fletcher Hill—­because
he hasn’t asked questions—­because
he’s just taken us on trust—­and I’m
hanged if he doesn’t deserve something better
than a bullet through his brain, even if he is a magistrate
and a policeman and a man of honour. Have you
got that, boys? Then chew it over and swallow
it! And when you’ve done that, I’ll
tell you something more.”

“Oh, let’s have it all, boss, now you’re
at it!” broke in Nixon. “We shan’t
have hysterics now. We’re past that stage.”

Warden turned with a lightning movement and laid his
hand upon the girl beside him. “Gentlemen,”
he said, “it’s Fletcher Hill—­and
not Buckskin Bill—­who’s the boss
of this valley. And he’s a good boss—­he’s
a sportsman—­he’s a maker of men.
And this lady is going to be his wife. You’re
going to stand by her, boys. You aren’t
going to make a widow of her before she’s married.
You aren’t going to let a skunk like Harley
make skunks of you all. You’re sportsmen,
too—­better sportsmen than that stands for—­better
sportsmen, maybe, than I am myself. What, boys?
It’s your turn to speak now.”

“Wait a bit!” said Nixon. “You
haven’t quite finished yet, boss.”

“No, that’s true.” Warden paused
an instant, then abruptly went forward a pace and
stood alone before the crowd. “I’ve
taken a good many chances in my life,” he said.
“But now I’m taking the biggest of ’em
all. Boys, I’m a damned impostor.
I’ve tricked you all, and it’s up to you
to stick me against a wall and shoot me as I deserve,
if you feel that way. For I’m Buckskin
Bill—­I’m Fortescue—­and
I’m several kinds of a fool to think I could
ever carry it through. Now you know!”

With defiant recklessness he flung the words.
They were more of a challenge than a confession.
And having spoken them he moved straight forward with
the moonlight on his face till he stood practically
among the rough crowd.

They opened out to receive him, almost as if at a
word of command. And Buckskin Bill, with his
head high and his blue eyes flaming, went straight
into them with the gait of a conqueror.

Suddenly, with a passionate gesture, he stopped, flinging
up his empty right hand. “Well, boys, well?
What’s the verdict? I’m in your hands.”

And a great hoarse roar of enthusiasm went up as they
closed around him that was like the bursting asunder
of mighty flood-gates. They surged about him.
They lifted him on their shoulders. They yelled
like maniacs and fired their revolvers in the air.
It was the wildest outbreak that Barren Valley had
ever heard, and to the girl who watched it, it was
the most marvellous revelation of a man’s magnetism
that she had ever beheld. Alone he had faced
and conquered a multitude.

It pierced her strangely, that fierce enthusiasm,
stirring her as personal danger had failed to stir.
She turned with the tears running down her face and
found Fletcher Hill standing unnoticed behind her,
silently looking on.

Page 47

“Oh, isn’t he great? Isn’t
he great?” she said.

He took her arm and led her within. His touch
was kind, but wholly without warmth. “There’s
not much doubt as to who is the boss of Barren Valley,”
he said.

And with the words he smiled—­a smile that
was sadder than her tears.

CHAPTER XIII

THE OFFICIAL SEAL

That life could possibly return to a normal course
after that amazing night would have seemed to Dot
preposterous but for the extremely practical attitude
adopted by Fletcher Hill. But when she saw him
again on the day after their safe return to Trelevan
there was nothing in his demeanour to remind her of
the stress through which they had passed. He
was, as ever, perfectly calm and self-contained, and
wholly uncommunicative. Adela sought in vain
to satisfy her curiosity as to the happenings in Barren
Valley which her courage had not permitted her to
witness for herself. Fletcher Hill was as a closed
book, and on some points Dot was equally reticent.
By no persuasion could Adela induce her to speak of
Bill Warden. She turned the subject whenever it
approached him, professing an ignorance which Adela
found excessively provoking.

They saw nothing of him during the remainder of the
week, and very little of Fletcher Hill, who went to
and fro upon his business with a machine-like precision
that seemed to pervade his every action. He made
no attempt to be alone with Dot, and she, with a shyness
almost overwhelming, thankfully accepted his forbearance.
The day they had fixed upon for their marriage was
rapidly approaching, but she had almost ceased to
contemplate it, for somehow it seemed to her that it
could never dawn. Something must happen first!
Surely something was about to happen! And from
day to day she lived for the sight of Bill Warden’s
great figure and the sound of his steady voice.
Anything, she felt, would be bearable if only she
could see him once again. But she looked for him
in vain.

When her brother joined them at the end of the week
a dullness of despair had come upon her. Again
she saw herself trapped and helpless, lacking even
the spirit to attempt escape. She greeted Jack
almost abstractedly, and he observed her throughout
the evening with anxiety in his eyes. When it
was over he drew her aside for a moment as she was
bidding him good-night.

“What’s the matter, little ’un?
What’s wrong?” he whispered, with his arm
about her.

She clung to him for an instant with a closeness that
was passionate. But, “It’s nothing,
Jack,” she whispered back. “It’s
nothing.”

Then Fletcher Hill came up to them, and they separated.
Adela and Dot went up to bed, and the two men were
left alone.

* * * *
*

So at length the great day dawned, and nothing had
happened. The only news that had reached them
was a remark overheard by Adela in the dining-room,
to the effect that Harley had thrown up his post and
gone.

Page 48

Dot dressed for her wedding with a dazed sense of
unreality. Her attire was of the simplest.
She wore a hat instead of a veil. It was to be
a quiet ceremony in the early morning, for neither
she nor Hill desired any unnecessary parade.
When she descended the stairs with Adela, Jack was
the only person awaiting her in the hall.

He looked at her searchingly as she came down to him,
then without a word he took her in his arms and kissed
her white face. She saw that he was moved, and
wondered within herself at her own utter lack of emotion.
Ever since she had lain against Bill Warden’s
breast, the wild sweet rapture of his hold had seemed
to paralyze in her all other feeling. She knew
only the longing for his presence, the utter emptiness
of a world that held him not.

She drove to the church with her hand in Jack’s,
Adela talking incessantly the whole way while they
two sat in silence. It was a bare building in
the heart of the town, but its bareness did not convey
any chill to her. She was already too numbly
cold for that.

She went up the aisle between Jack and Adela, because
the latter good-naturedly remarked that she might
as well have as much support as she could get.
But before they reached the altar-steps Fletcher Hill
came to meet them, and Adela dropped behind.

He also looked for a moment closely into Dot’s
face, then very quietly he took her cold hand from
Jack and drew it through his arm. She glanced
at him with a momentary nervousness as Jack also fell
behind.

Then some unknown force drew her as the magnet draws
the needle, and she looked towards the altar.
A man was standing by the steps awaiting her.
She saw the free carriage of the great shoulders, the
deep fire of the blue eyes. And suddenly her
heart gave a wild throb that was anguish, and stood
still.

Fletcher Hill’s arm went round her. He
held her for a second closely to him—­more
closely than he had ever held her before. But—­it
came to her later—­he did not utter a single
word. He only drew her on.

And so she came to Bill Warden waiting before the
altar. They met—­and all the rest was
blotted out.

She went through that service in a breathless wonderment,
an amazement that yet was strangely free from distress.
For Bill Warden’s hand clasped hers throughout,
save when Fletcher Hill took it from him for a moment
to give her away.

When it was over, and they knelt together in the streaming
sunshine of the morning, she felt as if they two were
alone in an inner sanctuary that was filled with the
Love of God. Later, those sacred moments were
the holiest memory of her life....

Then a strong arm lifted and held her. She turned
from the holy place with a faint sigh of regret, turned
to meet Fletcher Hill’s eyes looking at her
with that in them which she was never to forget.

His voice was the first to break through the wonder-spell
that bound her.

Page 49

“Do you think you will ever manage to forgive
me?” he said.

She turned swiftly from the arm that encircled her,
and impulsively she put her hands upon his shoulders,
offering him her lips. “Oh, I don’t—­know—­what—­to
say,” she said, brokenly.

He bent and gravely kissed her. “My dear,
there is nothing to be said so far as I am concerned,”
he said. “If you are happy, I am satisfied.”

It was briefly spoken, but it went straight to her
heart. She clung to him for a moment without
words, and that was all the thanks she ever offered
him. For there was nothing to be said.

* * * *
*

Very late on the evening of that wonderful day she
sat with Bill Warden on the edge of a rock overlooking
a fertile valley of many waters in the Blue Mountains,
and heard, with her hand in his the amazing story of
the past few days, which had seemed to her so curiously
dream-like.

“I fought hard against marrying you,”
Bill told her, with the smile she had remembered for
so long. “But he had me at every turn—­simply
rolled me out and wiped the ground with me. Said
he’d clap me into prison if I didn’t,
and when I said ‘All right’ to that, he
turned on me like a tiger and asked if I wanted to
break your heart. Oh, he made me feel a ten-times
swab, I can tell you. And when I said I didn’t
want you to marry an uncaught criminal, he just looked
me over and said, ’You’ve sown your wild
oats. As your partner, I am sponsor for your respectability.’
I knew what that meant, knew he’d stand by me
through thick and thin, whatever turned up. It
was the official seal with a vengeance, for what Fletcher
Hill says goes in these parts. But it went against
the grain, little new chum. It made me sick with
myself. I hated playing his game against himself.
It was the vilest thing I ever did. I couldn’t
have done it—­except for you.”

The little hand that held his tightened. She
leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “Shall
I tell you something?” she whispered. “I
couldn’t have done it either—­except
for—­you.”

His arm clasped her. “I’m such a
poor sort of creature, darling,” he said “I’ll
work for you—­live for you—­die
for you. But I shall never be worthy of you.”

She lifted her face to his in the gathering darkness.
“Dear love,” she said, “do you remember
how—­once—­you asked me to treat
you—­without prejudice? But I never
have—­and I don’t believe I ever shall.
Fletcher Hill is right to trust you. He is a
judge of men. But I—­I am only the
woman who loves you, and—­somehow—­whichever
way I take you—­I’m always prejudiced—­in
your favour.”

The low words ended against his lips. He kissed
her closely, passionately. “My little chum,”
he said, “I will be worthy—­I will
be worthy—­so help me God!”

He was near to tears as he uttered his oath; but presently,
when he turned back her sleeve to kiss the place where
first his lips had lingered, they laughed together—­the
tender laughter of lovers in the happy morning-time
of life.

Page 50

* * * *
*

Her Own Free Will

CHAPTER I

“Well, it’s all over now, for better,
for worse, as they say. And I hope very much
as it won’t be for worse.”

A loud sniff expressive of grave misgiving succeeded
the remark. The speaker—­one of a knot
of village women—­edged herself a little
further forward to look up the long strip of red baize
that stretched from the church porch to the lych gate
near which she stood. The two cracked bells were
doing their best to noise abroad the importance of
the event that had just taken place, which was nothing
less than the marriage of Colonel Everard’s
daughter to Piet Cradock, the man of millions.
Of the latter’s very existence none of the villagers
had heard till a certain day, but a few weeks before,
when he had suddenly appeared at the Hall as the accepted
suitor of Nan Everard, whom everyone loved.

She was only twenty, prettiest, gayest, wildest, of
the whole wild tribe. Three sons and eight daughters
had the Colonel—­a handsome, unruly family,
each one of them as lavish, as extravagant, and as
undeniably attractive as he was himself.

His wife had been dead for years. They lived
on the verge of bankruptcy, had done so as long as
most of them could remember; but it was only of late
that matters had begun to look really serious for them.
It was rumoured that the Hall was already mortgaged
beyond its value, and it was common knowledge that
the Colonel’s debts were accumulating with alarming
rapidity. This marriage, so it was openly surmised,
had been arranged in haste for the sole purpose of
easing the strain.

For that Nan Everard cared in the smallest degree
for the solemn, thick-set son of a Boer mother, to
whom she had given herself, no one ever deemed possible
for an instant. But he was rich, fabulously rich,
and that fact counterbalanced many drawbacks.
Piet Cradock owned a large share in a diamond mine
in the South African Republic, and he was a person
of considerable importance in his native land in consequence.
He had visited England on business, but his time there
had been limited to a bare six weeks. This fact
had necessitated a brief wooing and a speedy marriage.

He had met the girl of his choice by a mere accident.
He had chanced to be seated on her right hand at a
formal dinner-party in town. Very little had
passed between them then, but later, through the medium
of his host, he had sought her out, and called upon
her. Within a week he had asked her to be his
wife. And Nan Everard, impulsive, dazzled by the
prospect of unbounded wealth, and feverishly eager
to ease the family burden, had accepted him.

He was obliged to sail for South Africa within three
weeks of his proposal, and preparations for the marriage
had therefore to be hurried forward with all speed.
They were to leave for Plymouth immediately after
the ceremony, and to sail on the following day.

Page 51

So at breathless speed events had raced, and no one
knew exactly what was the state of Nan’s mind
even up to the morning of her wedding-day. Perhaps
she scarcely knew herself, so madly had she been whirled
along in the vortex to which she had committed herself.
But possibly during the ceremony some vague realisation
of what she was doing came upon her, for she made
her vows with a face as white as death, and in a voice
that never once rose above a whisper.

But when she came at last down the church-yard path
upon her husband’s arm, she was laughing merrily
enough. Some enthusiast had flung a shower of
rice over his uncovered head, to his obvious discomfiture.

He did not laugh with her. His smooth, heavy-jawed
face was absolutely unresponsive. He was fifteen
years her senior, and he looked it to the full.
The hair grew far back upon his head, and it had a
sprinkling of grey. His height was unremarkable,
but he had immensely powerful shoulders, and a bull-like
breadth of chest, that imparted a certain air of arrogance
to his gait. His black brows met shaggily over
eyes of sombre brown. Undeniably a formidable
personage, this!

Nan, glancing at him as she entered the carriage,
harboured for a moment the startled reflection that
if he had a beard nothing could have restrained her
just then from screaming and running away. But,
fortunately for her quaking dignity, his face, with
the exception of those menacing eyebrows, and the
lashes that shaded his gloomy eyes, was wholly free
from hair.

Driving away from the church with its two clanging
bells, she made a resolute effort to shake off the
scared feeling that had so possessed her when she
had stood at the altar with this man. If she had
made a mistake, and even now she was not absolutely
certain that she had—­it was impossible
in that turmoil of conflicting emotions to say—­but
if she had, it was past remedy, and she must face the
consequences without shrinking. She had a conviction
that he would domineer over her without mercy if she
displayed any fear.

So, bravely hiding her sinking heart, she laughed
and chatted for the benefit of her taciturn bridegroom
with the gayest inconsequence during the brief drive
to her home.

He scarcely replied. He seemed to have something
on his mind also. And Nan breathed a little sigh
of relief when they reached their destination, and
he gravely handed her out.

A litter of telegrams on a table in the old-fashioned
hall caught the girl’s attention directly she
entered. She pounced upon them with eager zest.

“Ah, here’s one from Jerry Lister.
I knew he would be sure to remember. He’s
the dearest boy in the world. He would have been
here, but for some horrid examination that kept him
at Oxford.”

She opened the message impetuously, and began to read
it; but suddenly, finding her husband at her side,
she desisted, crumpling it in her hand with decidedly
heightened colour.

Page 52

“Oh, he’s quite ridiculous. Let us
open some of the others.”

She thrust a sheaf into his hand, and busied herself
with the remainder.

He did not attempt to open any of them, but stood
silently watching her glowing face as she opened one
after another and tossed them down.

Suddenly she raised her eyes, and met his look fully,
with a certain pride.

“Is anything the matter?”

He pointed quite calmly to the scrap of paper she
held crumpled in her hand.

“Are you not going to read that?” he asked,
in slow, rather careful English.

Her colour deepened; it rose to her forehead in a
burning wave.

“Presently,” she returned briefly.

His eyes held hers with a curious insistence.

“You need not be afraid,” he said very
quietly; “I shall not try to look over.”

Nan stared at him, too amazed for speech. The
hot blood ebbed from her face as swiftly as it had
risen, leaving her as white as the orange-blossoms
in her hair.

At length suddenly, with a passionate gesture, she
thrust out her hand to him with the ball of paper
on her palm.

“Pray take it and read it,” she said,
her voice quivering with anger, “since it interests
you so much.”

He made no movement to comply.

“I do not wish to read it, Anne,” he said
gravely.

Her lip curled. It was the first time he had
ever called her by her Christian name, and there was
something exceedingly formal in the way he uttered
it now. Moreover, no one ever called her anything
but Nan. For some reason she was hotly indignant
at this unfamiliar mode of address. It increased
her anger against him tenfold.

“Take it and read it!” she reiterated,
with stubborn persistence. “I wish you
to do so!”

The first carriage-load of guests was approaching
the house as she spoke. Cradock paused for a
single instant as if irresolute, then, without more
ado, he took her at her word. He smoothed the
paper out without the smallest change of countenance,
and read it, while she stood quivering with impotent
fury by his side. It was a long telegram, and
it took some seconds to read; but he did not look
up till he had mastered it.

“Good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye,” so ran
the message—­“It is no red-letter
day for me, but I wish you joy with all my heart.
Spare a thought now and then for the good old times
and the boy you left behind you.—­Your loving
Jerry.”

Amid a buzz of congratulation, Piet Cradock handed
the missive back to his bride with a simple “Thank
you!” that revealed nothing whatever of what
was in his mind.

She took it, without looking at him, with nervous
promptitude, and the incident passed.

The guests were many, and Nan’s attention was
very fully occupied. No casual observer, seeing
her smiling face, would have suspected the turmoil
of doubt that underlay her serenity.

Page 53

Only Mona, her favourite sister, had the smallest
inkling of it, but even Mona was not in Nan’s
confidence just then. No intimate word of any
sort passed between them up in the old bedroom that
they had shared all their lives during the fleeting
half-hour that Nan spent preparing for her journey.
They could neither of them bear to speak of the coming
separation, and that embodied everything.

The only allusion that Nan made to it was as she passed
out of the room with her arm round her sister’s
shoulders, and whispered:

“Don’t sleep by yourself to-night, darling.
Make Lucy join you.”

They descended the stairs, holding closely to each
other. Old Colonel Everard, very red and tearful,
met them at the foot, and folded Nan tightly in his
arms, murmuring inarticulate words of blessing.

Nan emerged from his embrace pale but quite tearless.

“Au revoir, dad!” she said, in her sprightliest
tone. “You will be having me back like
a bad half-penny before you can turn round.”

Still laughing, she went from one to another of her
family with words of careless farewell, and finally
rah the gauntlet of her well-wishers to the waiting
carriage, into which she dived without ceremony to
avoid the hail of rice that pursued her.

Her husband followed her closely, and they were off
almost before he took his seat beside her.

“Thank goodness, that’s over!” said
Nan, with fervour. “I’ll never marry
again if I live to be a hundred! I am sure being
buried must be much more fun, and not nearly so ignominious.”

She leaned forward with the words, and was on the
point of letting down the window, when there was a
sudden, deafening report close to them. The carriage
jerked and swerved violently, and in an instant it
was being whirled down the drive at the top speed
of two terrified horses.

Instinctively Nan turned to the man beside her.

“It’s the boys!” she exclaimed.
“They said they should fire a salute! But—­but—­”

She broke off, amazed to find his arms gripping her
tightly, forcing her back in her seat, holding her
pressed to him with a strength that took her breath
away.

It all came—­a multitude of impressions—­crowded
into a few brief seconds; yet every racing detail
was engraved with awful distinctness upon the girl’s
mind, never to be forgotten.

She struggled wildly in that suffocating hold, struggled
fruitlessly to lift her face from her husband’s
shoulder into which it was ruthlessly pressed, and
only ceased to struggle when the end of that terrible
flight came with a jolt and a jar and a final, sickening
crash that flung her headlong into a dreadful gulf
of emptiness into which no light or echo of sound
could even vaguely penetrate.

CHAPTER II

Nan opened her eyes in her own sunny bedroom, and
gazed wonderingly about her, dimly conscious of something
wrong.

Page 54

The doctor, whom she had known from her earliest infancy,
was bending over her, and she smiled her recognition
of him, though with a dawning uneasiness. Vague
shapes were floating in her brain that troubled and
perplexed her.

“What happened?” she murmured uneasily.

He laid his hand upon her forehead.

“Nothing much,” he told her gently.
“Lie still like a good girl and go to sleep.
There is nothing whatever for you to worry about.
You’ll be better in the morning.”

But the shapes were obstinate, and would not be expelled.
They were, moreover, beginning to take definite form.

“Wasn’t there an accident?” she
said restlessly. “I wish you would tell
me.”

“Well, I will,” the doctor answered, “if
you will keep quiet and not vex yourself. There
was a bit of an accident. The carriage was overturned.
But no one was hurt but you, and you will soon be yourself
again if you do as you’re told.”

“But how am I hurt?” questioned Nan, moving
her head on the pillow with a dizzy feeling of weakness.
“Ah!” with a sudden frown of pain.
“It—­it’s my arm.”

“Yes,” the doctor said. “It’s
your arm. It went through the carriage window.
I have had to strap it up pretty tightly. You
will try to put up with it, and on no account must
it be moved.”

She looked at him with startled eyes.

“Is it very badly cut, then?”

“Yes, a fragment of glass pierced the main artery.
But I have checked the bleeding—­it was
a providential thing that I was at hand to do it—­and
if you keep absolutely still, it won’t burst
out again. I am telling you this because it is
necessary for you to know what a serious matter it
is. Any exertion might bring it on again, and
then I can’t say what would happen. You
have lost a good deal of blood as it is, and you can’t
afford to lose any more. But if you behave like
a sensible girl, and lie quiet for a few days, you
will soon be none the worse for the adventure.”

“For a few days!” Nan’s eyes widened.
“Then—­then I shan’t be able
to go with—­with—­” She
faltered, and broke off.

He answered her with very kindly sympathy.

“Poor little woman! It’s hard lines,
but I am afraid there is no help for it. You
will have to postpone your honeymoon for a little while.”

“Have you—­have you—­told—­him?”
Nan whispered anxiously.

“Yes, he knows all about it,” the doctor
said. “You shall see him presently.
But I want you to rest now. You have had a nasty
shock, and I should like you to sleep it off.
Just drink this, and shut your eyes.”

Nan obeyed him meekly. She was feeling very weak
and tired. And, after a little, she fell asleep,
blissfully unconscious of the fact that her husband
was seated close to her on the other side of the bed,
silent and watchful, and immobile as a statue.

She did not wake till late on the following morning,
and then it was to find her sister Mona only in attendance.

“He says he must go—­whatever happens.
It was a solemn promise, and he can’t break
it. I don’t understand, of course, but he
is wanted at Kimberley to avert some crisis connected
with the mines.”

“Then—­he will have to start soon?”
said Nan.

“Yes. But he won’t leave till the
last minute. He has chartered a special to take
him to Plymouth.”

“He knows I can’t go?” said Nan
quickly.

“Oh, yes; the doctor told him that last night.”

“What did he say? Was he angry?”

“He looked furious. But he didn’t
say anything, even in Dutch. I think his feelings
were beyond words,” said Mona, with a little
smile.

Nan asked no more, but when the doctor saw her a little
later, he was dissatisfied with her appearance, and
scolded her for working herself into a fever.

“There’s no sense in fretting about it,”
he said. “The thing is done, and can’t
be altered. I have no doubt your husband will
be back again in a few weeks to fetch you, and we
will have you quite well again by then.”

But Nan only shivered in response, as though she found
this assurance the reverse of comforting. The
shock of the accident, succeeding the incessant strain
of the past few weeks, had completely broken down her
nerve, and no amount of reasoning could calm her.

When a message came from her husband an hour later,
asking if she would see him, she answered in the affirmative,
but the bare prospect of the interview threw her into
a ferment of agitation.

She lay panting on her pillows like a frightened child
when at length he entered.

He came in very softly, but every pulse in her body
leapt at his approach. She could not utter a
word in greeting.

He stood a moment in silence, looking down at her,
then, stooping, he took her free hand into his own.

“Are you better?” he asked, his deep voice
hushed as if he were in church.

She could not answer him for the fast beating of her
heart. He waited a little, then sat down by the
bed, his great hand still holding her little trembling
one in a steady grasp.

Page 56

“The doctor tells me,” he said, “that
it would not be safe for you to travel at present,
so I cannot of course, think of allowing you to do
so.”

Nan’s eyes opened very wide at this. It
was an entirely novel idea that this man should take
upon himself to direct her movements. She drew
a deep breath, and found her voice.

“I should certainly not dream of attempting
such a thing without the doctor’s permission.”

His grave face did not alter. His eyes looked
directly into hers and it seemed to Nan for the first
time that they held something of a domineering expression.

She turned her head away with a quick frown.
She also made a slight, ineffectual effort to free
her hand. But he did not appear to notice either
gesture.

“Yes,” he said, in his slow way, “it
is out of the question, and so I have asked your father
to take care of you for me until my return—­for,
unfortunately, I cannot postpone my own departure.”

Nan’s lips quivered. She was beginning
to feel hysterical. With an effort she controlled
herself.

“How long shall you be away?” she asked.

“It is impossible for me to say. Everything
depends upon the state of affairs at the mines.
But you may be quite sure, Anne”—­a
deeper note crept into his voice—­“that
my absence will be as short as I can possibly make
it.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he answered gravely.
“I have made full provision for you. The
interest upon the settlement I have made upon you will
be paid to you monthly. Should you find it insufficient,
you will, of course, let me know. I could cable
you some more if necessary.”

A great blush rose in Nan’s face at his words,
spreading upwards to her hair.

“It is your own,” he interposed quietly,
“and as such I beg that you will regard it,
and spend it exactly as you like. Should you require
more, as I have said, I shall be pleased to send it
to you.”

He uttered the last sentence as if it ended the matter,
and Nan found herself unable to say more. To
have expressed any gratitude would have been an absolute
impossibility at that moment.

She lay, therefore, in quivering silence until he
spoke again.

“It is time for me to be going. I hope
the injury to your arm will progress quite satisfactorily.
You will not be able to write to me yourself at present,
but your sister Mona has promised to let me hear of
you by every mail. Dr. Barnard will also write.”

He paused. But Nan said nothing whatever.
She was wondering, with a fiery embarrassment, what
form his farewell would take.

After a brief silence he rose.

“Good-bye, then!” he said.

He bent low over her, looking closely into her unwilling
face. And then—­it was the merest touch—­for
the fraction of a second his lips were on her forehead.

Page 57

“Good-bye!” he said again, under his breath,
and in another moment she heard his soft tread as
he went away.

Her heart was throbbing madly; she felt as if it were
leaping up and down within her. For a space she
lay listening, every nerve upon the stretch.
Then at last there came to her the sound of voices
raised in farewell, the crunch of wheels below her
window, the loud banging of a door. And with
a gasp she turned her face into her pillow, and wept
for sheer relief.

He had come and gone like an evil dream, and she was
left safe in her father’s house.

CHAPTER III

Three weeks after her wedding, Nan Cradock awoke to
the amazing discovery that she was a rich woman; how
rich it took her some time to realise, and when it
did dawn upon her she was startled, almost dismayed.

Her recovery from the only illness she had ever known
was marvellously rapid, and with her return to health
her spirits rose to their accustomed giddy height.
There was little in her surroundings to remind her
of the fact that she was married, always excepting
the unwonted presence of these same riches which she
speedily began to scatter with a lavish hand.
Her life slipped very easily back into its accustomed
groove, save that the pinch of poverty was conspicuously
absent. The first day of every month brought
her a full purse, and for a long time the charm of
this novelty went far towards quieting the undeniable
sense of uneasiness that accompanied it.

It was only when the novelty began to wear away that
the burdened feeling began to oppress her unduly.
No one suspected it, not even Mona, who adhered rigorously
to her promise, and wrote her weekly report of her
sister’s health to her absent brother-in-law
long after Nan was fully capable of performing this
duty for herself. Mona had always been considered
the least feather-brained of the family, and she certainly
fulfilled her trust with absolute integrity.

Piet Cradock’s epistles were not quite so frequent,
and invariably of the briefest. They were exceedingly
formal at all times, and Nan’s heart never warmed
at the sight of his handwriting. It was thick
and strong, like himself, and she always regarded
it with a little secret sense of aversion.

Nevertheless, as time passed, and he made no mention
of return, her dread of the future subsided gradually
into the back of her mind. It had never been
her habit to look forward very far, and she was still
little more than a child. Gradually the fact
of her marriage began to grow shadowy and unreal,
till at length she almost managed to shut it out of
her consideration altogether. She had accepted
the man upon impulse, dazzled by the glitter of his
wealth. To find that he had drifted out of her
life, and that the wealth remained, was the most blissful
state of affairs that she could have desired.

Page 58

Slowly spring merged into summer, and more and more
did it seem to Nan that the past was nothing but a
dream. She returned to her customary pursuits
with all her old zest, rising early in the mornings
to follow the otter-hounds, tramping for miles, and
returning ravenous to breakfast; or, again, spending
hours in the saddle, and only returning at her own
sweet will. Colonel Everard’s household
was one of absolute freedom. No one ever questioned
the doings of anyone else. From the earliest
they had one and all been accustomed to go their own
way. And Nan was the freest and most independent
of them all.

It was on a splendid morning in July that as she splashed
along the marshy edge of a stream in hot pursuit of
one of the biggest otters she had ever seen, a well-known
voice accosted her by name.

“Hullo, Nan! I wondered if you would turn
up when they told me you were still at home.”

Nan whisked round, up to her ankles in mud.

“Hullo, Jerry, it’s you, is it?”
was her unceremonious reply. “Pleased to
see you, my boy. But don’t talk to me now.
I can’t think of anything but business.”

She was off with the words, not waiting to shake hands.
But Jerry Lister was not in the least discouraged
by this treatment. He was accustomed to Nan and
all her ways.

He pounded after her along the bank and joined her
as a matter of course. A straight, good-looking
youth was Jerry, as wild and headstrong as Nan herself.
He was the grand-nephew of old Squire Grimshaw, Colonel
Everard’s special crony, and he and Nan had been
chums from their childhood. He was only a year
older than she, and in many respects he was her junior.
“I say, you are all right again?” was his
first question, when the otter allowed them a little
breathing-space. “I was awfully sorry to
hear about your accident, you know, but awfully glad,
too, in a way. By Jove, I don’t think I
could have spent the Long here, with you in South
Africa! What ever possessed you to go and marry
a Boer, Nan?”

“Don’t be an idiot!” said Nan sharply.
“He isn’t anything of the sort.”

But Jerry was not to be shaken off. He linked
an affectionate arm in hers.

“All right, Nan old girl, don’t be waxy,”
he pleaded. “Come on the lake with me this
afternoon instead. I’ll bring some prog
if you will, and we’ll have one of our old red-letter
days. Is it a promise?”

She hesitated, still half inclined to be ungracious.

“Well,” she said at length, moved in spite
of herself by his persuasive attitude, “I will
come to please you, on one condition.”

“Good!” ejaculated Jerry. “It’s
done, whatever it is.”

“Don’t be absurd!” she protested,
trying to be stern and failing somewhat ignominiously.
“I will come only if you will promise not to
talk about anything that you see I don’t like.”

Page 59

“Bless your heart,” said Jerry, lifting
her fingertips to his lips, “I won’t utter
a syllable, good or bad, without your express permission.
You’ll come, then?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” she said, allowing
the smile that would not be suppressed. “But
if you don’t make it very nice, I shall never
come again.”

“All right,” said Jerry cheerily.
“I’ll bring my banjo. You always like
that. Come early, like a saint. I’ll
be at the boat-house at eleven.”

He was; and Nan was not long after. The lake
stretched for about a mile in the squire’s park,
and many were the happy hours that they had spent
upon it.

It was a day of perfect summer, and they drifted through
it in sublime enjoyment. Jerry soon discovered
that the girl’s marriage and anything remotely
connected with it were subjects to be avoided, and
as he had no great wish himself to investigate in
that direction he found small difficulty in confining
himself to more familiar ground. Without effort
they resumed the old friendly intercourse that the
girl’s rash step had threatened to cut short,
and long before the end of the afternoon they were
as intimate as they had ever been.

“You mustn’t go in yet,” insisted
Jerry, when a distant clock struck seven. “Wait
another couple of hours. There’s plenty
of food left. And the moonrise will be grand
to-night.”

Nan did not need much persuading. She had always
loved the lake, and Jerry’s society was generally
congenial. He had, moreover, been taking special
pains to please her, and she was quite willing to be
pleased.

She consented, therefore, and Jerry punted her across
to her favourite nook for supper. She thoroughly
enjoyed the repast, Jerry’s ideas of what a
picnic-basket should contain being of a decidedly lavish
order.

The meal over, he took up his banjo and waxed sentimental.
Nan lay among her cushions and listened in sympathetic
silence. Undeniably Jerry knew how to make music,
and he also knew when to stop—­a priceless
gift in Nan’s estimation.

When the moon rose at last out of the summer haze,
he had laid his instrument aside and was lying with
his head on his arms and his face to the rising glory.
They watched it dumbly in the silence of goodfellowship,
till at last it topped the willows and shone in a broad,
silver streak across the lake right up to the prow
of the boat.

After a long time Jerry turned his dark head.

“I say, Nan!” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Yes?” she murmured back, her eyes still
full of the splendour. The boy raised himself
a little.

“Do you remember that day ever so long ago when
we played at being sweethearts on this very identical
spot?” he asked her softly.

She turned her eyes to his with a doubtful, questioning
look.

“We weren’t in earnest, Jerry,”
she reminded him.

He jerked one shoulder with a sharp, impatient gesture,
highly characteristic of him.

Page 60

“I know we weren’t. I shan’t
dream of being in earnest in that way for another
ten—­perhaps twenty—­years.
But there’s no harm in making believe, is there,
just now and then? I liked that game awfully,
and so did you. You know you did.”

Nan did not attempt to deny it. She sat up instead
with her hands clasped round her knees and laughed
like an elf.

Her wedding-ring caught the moonlight, and the boy
leaned forward with a frown.

“Take that thing off, won’t you, just
for to-night? I hate to think you’re married.
You’re not, you know. We’re in fairyland,
and married people never go there. The fairies
will turn you out if they see it.”

Very gently he inserted one finger between her clasped
ones and began to draw the emblem off.

Nan made no resistance whatever. She only sat
and laughed. She was in her gayest, most inconsequent
mood. Some magic of the moonlight was in her
veins that night.

“There!” said Jerry triumphantly.
“Now you are safe. Jove! Did you hear
that water-sprite gurgling under the boat? It
must be ripping to be a water-sprite. Can’t
you see them, Nan, whisking about down there in couples
along the stones? Give me your hand, and we’ll
dive under and join them.”

But Nan’s enthusiasm would not stretch to this.
She fully understood his mood, but she would only
sit in the moonlight and laugh, till presently Jerry,
infected by her merriment, began to laugh too, and
spun the ring he had filched from her high into the
moonlight.

How it happened neither of them could ever afterwards
say; but just at that critical moment when the ring
was glittering in mid-air, some wayward current, or
it might have been the water-sprite Jerry had just
detected, lapped the water smartly against the punt
and bumped it against the bank. Jerry exclaimed
and nearly overbalanced backwards; Nan made a hasty
grab at her falling property, but her hand only collided
with his, making a similar grab at the same moment,
and between them they sent the ring spinning far out
into the moonlit ripples.

It disappeared before their dazzled eyes into that
magic bar of light, and the girl and the boy turned
and gazed at one another in speechless consternation.

Nan was the first to recover. She drew a deep
breath, and burst into a merry peal of laughter.

“My dear boy, for pity’s sake don’t
look like that! I never saw anything so absolutely
tragic in my life. Why, what does it matter?
I can buy another. I can buy fifty if I want
them.”

Thus reassured, Jerry began to laugh too, but not
with Nan’s abandonment. The incident had
had a sobering effect upon him.

“But I’m awfully sorry,” he protested.
“All my fault. You must let me make it
good.”

This suggestion added to Nan’s mirth. “Oh,
I couldn’t really. I should feel as if
I was married to you, and I shouldn’t like that
at all. Now you needn’t look cross, for
you know you wouldn’t either. No, don’t
be silly, Jerry. It doesn’t matter the
least little bit in the world.”

“Why, of course not,” she declared, with
regal indifference. “How can you be so
absurd?”

And in face of such sublime recklessness, he was obliged
to be convinced.

CHAPTER IV

Nan’s picnic on the lake was not concluded much
before ten o’clock.

She ran home through the moonlight, bareheaded, whistling
as carelessly as a boy. Night and day were the
same thing to her in the place in which she had lived
all her life. There was not one of the village
folk whom she did not know, not one for whom the doings
of the wild Everards did not provide food for discussion.
For Nan undoubtedly was an Everard still, her grand
wedding notwithstanding. No one ever dreamed of
applying any other title to her than the familiar
“Miss Nan” that she had borne from her
babyhood. There was, in fact, a general feeling
that the unknown husband of Miss Nan was scarcely
worthy of the high honour that had been bestowed upon
him. His desertion of her on the very day succeeding
the wedding had been freely criticised, and in many
quarters condemned out of hand. No one knew the
exact circumstances of the case, but all were agreed
in pronouncing Miss Nan’s husband a defaulter.

That Miss Nan herself was very far from fretting over
the situation was abundantly evident, but this fact
did not in any way tend to justify the offender, of
whom it was beginning to be opined round the bars of
the village inns that he was “one o’ them
queer sort of cusses that it was best for women to
steer clear of.”

Naturally these interesting shreds of gossip never
reached Nan’s ears. She was, as she had
ever been, supremely free from self-consciousness
of any description, and it never occurred to her that
the situation in which she was placed was sufficiently
peculiar to cause comment. The Everards had ever
been a law unto themselves, and it was inconceivable
that anyone should attempt to apply to them the conventional
rules by which other people chose to let their lives
be governed. Of course they were different from
the rest of the world. It had been an accepted
fact as long as she could remember, and it certainly
had never troubled her, nor was it ever likely to
do so.

She was sublimely unconscious of all criticism as
she ran down the village street that night, nodding
carelessly to any that she met, and finally turned
lightly in at her father’s gates, walking with
elastic tread under the great arching beech trees
that blotted the moonlight from her path.

The front door stood hospitably open, and she entered
to find her father stretched in his favourite chair,
smoking.

Page 62

He greeted her with his usual gruff indulgence.

“Hallo, you mad-cap! I was just wondering
whether I would scour the country for you, or leave
the door open and go to bed. I think it was going
to be the last, though, to be sure, it would have served
you right if I had locked you out. Had any dinner?”

“No, darling, supper—­any amount of
it.” Nan dropped a kiss upon his bald head
in passing. “I’ve been with Jerry,”
she said, “on the lake the whole day long.
We watched the moon rise. It was so romantic.”

The Colonel grunted.

“More rheumatic than romantic I should have
thought. Better have a glass of grog.”

Nan screwed up her bright face with a laugh.

“Heaven forbid, dad! And on a night like
this. Oh, bother! Is that a letter for me?”

Colonel Everard was pointing to an envelope on the
mantelpiece. She crossed the hall without eagerness,
and picked it up.

“I’ve had one, too,” said the Colonel,
after a brief pause, speaking with a jerk as if the
words insisted upon being uttered in spite of him.

“You!” Nan paused with one finger already
inserted in the flap. “What for?”

Her father was staring steadily at the end of his
cigar, or he might have seen a hint of panic in her
dark eyes.

“You will see for yourself,” he said,
still in that uncomfortable, jerky style. “He
seems to think—­Well, I must say it sounds
reasonable enough since he can’t get back at
present; but you will see for yourself.”

A little tremor went through Nan as she opened the
letter. With frowning brows she perused it.

It did not take long to read. The thick, upright
writing was almost arrogantly distinct, recalling
the writer with startling vividness.

He had written with his accustomed brevity, but there
was much more than usual in his letter. He saw
no prospect, so he told her, of being able to leave
the country for some time to come. Affairs were
unsettled, and likely to remain so. At the same
time, there was no reason, now that her health was
restored, that she should not join him, and he was
writing to ask her father to take her out to him.
He would meet them at Cape Town, and if the Colonel
cared to do so he would be very pleased if he would
spend a few months with them.

The plan was expressed concisely but with absolute
kindness. Nevertheless there was about the letter
a certain tone of mastery which gave Nan very clearly
to understand that the writer thereof did not expect
to be disappointed. It was emphatically the letter
of a husband to his wife, not of a lover to his beloved.

She looked up from it with a very blank face.

“My dear dad!” she ejaculated. “What
can he be thinking of?”

Colonel Everard smiled somewhat ruefully.

“You, apparently,” he said, with an effort
to speak lightly. “What shall we say to
him—­eh, Nan? You’ll like to go
on the spree with your old dad to take care of you.”

Page 63

“Spree!” exclaimed Nan. And again
in a lower key, with a still finer disdain: “Spree!
Well”—­tearing the letter across impulsively,
with the action of a passionate child—­“you
can go on the spree if you like, dad, but I’m
going to stay at home. I’m not going to
run after him to the ends of the earth if he is my
husband. It wasn’t in the bargain, and I
won’t do it!”

She stamped like a little fury, scattering fragments
of the torn letter in all directions.

Her father attempted a feeble remonstrance, but she
overrode him instantly.

“I won’t listen to you, dad!” she
declared fiercely. “I tell you I won’t
do it! The man isn’t living who shall order
me to do this or that as if I were his slave.
You can write and tell him so if you like. When
I married him, he gave me to understand that we should
only be out there for a few months at most, and then
we were to settle in England. You see what a
different story he tells now. But I won’t
be treated in that way. I won’t be inveigled
out there, and made to wait on his royal pleasure.
He chose to go without me. I wasn’t important
enough to keep him in England, and now it’s
my turn. He isn’t important enough to drag
me out there. No, be quiet, daddy! I tell
you I won’t go! I won’t go, I swear
it!”

“My dear child,” protested the Colonel,
making himself heard at length in her pause for breath.
“No one wants you to go anywhere or do anything
against your will. Piet Cradock isn’t so
unreasonable as that, if he is a Dutchman. Now
don’t distress yourself. There isn’t
the smallest necessity for that. I thought it
just possible that you might like the idea as I was
to be with you. But as you don’t—­well,
there’s an end of it. We will say no more.”

Nan’s arm was around his neck as he ended, her
cheek against his forehead.

“Dear, dear daddy, don’t think I’m
cross with you. You’re just the sweetest
old darling in the world, and I’d go to Kamschatka
with you gladly—­in fact, anywhere—­anywhere—­except
South Africa. Can’t we go somewhere together,
just you and I? Let’s go to Jamaica.
I’m sure I can afford it.”

“No, no, no!” protested the Colonel.
“Get away with you, you baggage! What are
you thinking of? Miss the cubbing season?
Not I. And not you either, if I know you. There!
Run along to bed, and take my blessing with you.
I’ll send a line to Piet, if you like, and tell
him you don’t object to waiting for him a bit
longer under your old father’s roof. Come,
be off with you! I’m going to lock up.”

He hoisted himself out of his chair with the words,
looked at her fondly for a moment, took her pretty
face between his hands, and kissed her twice.

“She’s the worst pickle of the lot,”
he declared softly.

He did not add that she was also his darling of them
all, but this was a perfectly open secret between
them, and had been such as long as Nan could remember.
She laughed up at him with tender impudence in recognition
of the fact.

Page 64

CHAPTER V

The letter from Piet Cradock was not again referred
to by either Nan or her father. The latter answered
it in his own way after the lapse of a few weeks.
He was of a peaceable, easy-going nature himself, and
he did not anticipate any trouble with Nan’s
husband. After all, the child’s reluctance
to leave her home was perfectly natural. He, for
his part, had never fully understood the attraction
which his son-in-law had exercised upon her.
He had been glad enough to have his favourite daughter
provided for, but the actual parting with her had
been a serious trouble to him, the most serious he
had known for years, and he had been very far from
desiring to quarrel with the Fate that had restored
her to him.

He was comfortably convinced that Piet would understand
all this. Moreover, the fellow was clearly very
busy. All his energies seemed to be fully occupied.
He would have but little time to spare for his wife,
even if he had her at his side. No, on the whole,
the Colonel was of opinion that Nan’s decision
was a wise one, and it seemed to him that, upon reflection,
his son-in-law could scarcely fail to agree with him.

Something of this he expressed in his letter when
he eventually roused himself to reply to Piet’s
invitation, and therewith he dismissed all further
thought upon the subject from his mind. His darling
had pleased herself all her life, and naturally she
would continue to do so.

His letter went into silence, but there was nothing
surprising in this fact. Piet was, of course,
too busy to have any leisure for private affairs.
The whole matter slid into the past with the utmost
ease. No doubt he would come home some day, but
very possibly not for years, and the Colonel was quite
content with this vague prospect.

As for Nan, she flicked the matter from her with the
utmost nonchalance. Since her father had undertaken
to explain things, she did not even trouble herself
to write an answer to her husband’s letter.
That letter had, in fact, very deeply wounded her
pride. It had been a command, and Nan was not
accustomed to such treatment. Never, in all her
unruly life, had she yielded obedience to any.
No discipline had ever tamed her. She had been
free, free as air, and she had not the vaguest intention
of submitting herself to the authority of anyone.
The bare idea was unthinkably repugnant to her, foreign
to her whole nature.

So, with a fierce disgust, she cast from her all memory
of that brief message that had come to her from the
man who called himself her husband, who had actually
dared to treat her as one having the right to control
her actions. She could be a thousand times more
arrogant than he when occasion served, and she had
not the faintest intention of allowing herself to
be fettered by any man’s tyranny.

Page 65

Swiftly the days of that splendid summer flew by.
She scarcely knew how she spent them, but she was
always in the open air, and almost invariably with
Jerry. She missed him considerably when he returned
to Oxford, but the hunting season was at hand, and
soon engrossed all her thoughts. Old Squire Grimshaw
was the master, and Nan and her father followed his
hounds three days in every week. People had long
since come to acquiesce in the absence of Nan’s
husband. Many of them had almost forgotten that
the girl was married, since Nan herself so persistently
ignored the fact. Gossip upon the subject had
died down for lack of nourishment. And Nan pursued
her reckless way untrammelled as of yore.

The week before Christmas saw Jerry once more at the
Hall. He was as ardent a follower of the hounds
as was Nan, and many were the breakneck gallops in
which they indulged before a spell of frost put an
end to this giddy pastime. Christmas came and
went, leaving the lake frozen to a thickness of several
inches, leaving Nan and the ever-faithful Jerry cutting
figures of extraordinary elaboration on the ice.

The Hunt Ball had been fixed to take place on the
sixth of January, and, in preparation for this event,
Nan and some of her sisters were busily engaged beforehand
in decking the Town Hall of the neighbourhood with
evergreens and bunting. Jerry’s assistance
in this matter was, of course, invaluable, and when
the important day arrived, he and Nan spent the whole
afternoon in sliding about the floor to improve the
surface.

So absorbing was this occupation that the passage
of time was quite unnoticed by either of them till
Nan at length discovered to her dismay that she had
missed the train by which she had meant to return.

To walk back meant a trudge of five miles. To
drive was out of the question, for all the carriages
in the place had been requisitioned.

“What in the world shall I do?” she cried.
“If I walk back, I shall never have time to
dress. Oh, why haven’t I got a motor?”

Jerry slapped his leg with a yell of triumph.

“My dear girl, you have! The very thing!
I’ll be your motor and chauffeur rolled into
one. My bicycle is here. Come along, and
I’ll take you home on the step.”

The idea was worthy of them both. Nan fell in
with it with a gay chuckle. It was not the first
time that she had indulged in this species of gymnastics
with Jerry’s co-operation, though, to be sure,
some years had elapsed since the last occasion on
which she had performed the feat.

She had not, however, forgotten her ancient prowess,
and Jerry was delighted with his passenger. Poised
on one foot, and holding firmly to his shoulders,
Nan sailed down the High Street in the full glare of
the lamps. It was not a dignified mode of progression,
but it was very far from being ungraceful.

She wore a little white fur cap on her dark hair,
and her pretty face laughed beneath it like the face
of a merry child. The danger of her position
was a consideration that never occurred to her.
She was in her wildest mood, and enjoying herself
to the utmost.

Page 66

The warning hoot of a motor behind her dismayed her
not at all.

“Hurry up, Jerry! Don’t let them
pass!” she urged.

And Jerry put his whole heart into his pedalling and
bore her at the top of his speed.

It was an exciting race, but ending, as such races
are bound to end, in the triumph of the motor.
The great machine overtook them steadily, surely.
For three seconds they were abreast, and Nan hammered
her cavalier on the back with her muff in a fever
of impatience. Then the motor glided ahead, leaving
only the fumes of its petrol to exasperate the already
heated Nan.

“Beasts!” she ejaculated tersely, while
Jerry became so limp with laughter, that he nearly
ceased pedalling altogether.

No further adventure befell them during the five-mile
journey. The roads were in excellent condition,
and the moon was high and frostily bright.

“It’s been lovely,” Nan declared,
as they turned in at her father’s gates.
“And you’re a brick, Jerry!”

“How many waltzes shall I get for it?”
was Jerry’s prompt rejoinder.

The girl’s gay laugh rang silvery through the
frosty air. Jerry had been asking the question
at intervals all the afternoon.

“I’ll give you all the extras,”
she laughed as she sprang lightly to the ground.

Jerry did not even dismount. His time also was
limited.

“Yes?” he called over his shoulder, as
he wheeled round and began to ride away. “And?”

“And as many more as I can spare,” cried
Nan, and with a wave of her hand turned to enter the
house.

The laugh was still on her lips as she mounted the
steps. The hall-door stood open, and her father’s
voice hailed her from within.

“Hallo, Nan, you scapegrace! What mad-cap
trick will you be up to next, I wonder?”

There was a decided note of uneasiness behind the
banter of his tone which her quick ear instantly detected.
She looked up sharply and in a second, as if at a
touch of magic, the laughter all died out of her face.

A man was standing in the glow of the lamp-light slightly
behind her father, a man of medium height and immense
breadth, with a clean-shaven, heavy-browed face, and
sombre eyes that watched her silently.

CHAPTER VI

Nan was ever quick in all her ways, and it was very
seldom that she was disconcerted. Between the
moment of her reaching the top step and that in which
she entered the hall, she flashed from laughing childhood
to haughty womanhood. The dignity with which
she offered her hand to her husband was in its way
superb.

“An unexpected pleasure!” was her icy
comment.

He took the hand, looking closely into her eyes.
He made no attempt to draw her nearer, and Nan remained
at arm’s-length. Yet something in his scrutiny
affected her, for a shiver went through her, proudly
though she met it.

Page 67

“It is cold,” she said, by way of explanation.
“It is freezing hard, and we came all the way
by road.”

“Yes,” he said, in his deep, slow voice.
“I saw you.”

“You saw me?” Nan’s eyebrows went
up; she was furiously conscious that she blushed.

“I passed you in a motor,” he explained.

“Oh!” She withdrew her hand, and turned
to the fire with a little laugh, raging inwardly at
the fate that had betrayed her.

Standing by the hearth, she pulled off her gloves,
and spread her hands to the blaze. It was a mere
pretence, for she was hot all over by that time, hot
and quivering and fiercely resentful. There was
another feeling also behind her resentment, a feeling
which she would not own, that made her heart thump
oddly, as it had thumped only once before in her life—­when
this man had touched her face with his lips.

“Well,” she said, standing up after a
few minutes, “I must go and dress, and so must
you, dad. We are going to the Hunt Ball to-night,”
she added, with a brief glance in her husband’s
direction.

He made no reply of any sort. His eyes were fixed
upon her left hand. After a moment she became
aware of this, and slipped it carelessly into her
pocket. Whistling softly, she turned to go.

At the foot of the stairs she heard her father’s
voice, and paused.

“You had better come, too,” he was saying
to his son-in-law.

Nan wheeled sharply, almost as if she would protest,
but she checked her words unspoken.

Quietly Piet Cradock was making reply:

“Thank you, Colonel. I think I had better.”

Across the hall Nan met his gaze still unwaveringly
fixed upon her, and she returned it with the utmost
defiance of which she was capable. Did he actually
fancy that she could be coerced into joining him, she
asked herself—­she who had always been free
as the air? Well, he would soon discover his
mistake. She would begin to teach him from that
moment.

With her head still held high, she turned and mounted
the stairs.

Mona was waiting for her in much disturbance of spirit.

“He arrived early this afternoon,” was
her report. “We were all so astonished.
He has come for you, Nan, and he says he must start
back next week without fail. Isn’t it short
notice? I wish he had written to say he was coming.
He sat and talked to dad all the afternoon. And
then, as you didn’t come, he started off in
his motor to find you. He must have gone to the
station first, or he would have met you sooner.”

To all this Nan listened with a set face, while she
raced through her dressing. She made no comment
whatever. The only signs that she heard lay in
her tense expression and unsteady fingers.

They did not descend till the last minute, just as
the carriage containing the Colonel and three more
of his daughters was driving away.

Piet was standing like a massive statue in the hall.
As the two girls came down, he moved forward.

Page 68

“I have kept the motor for you,” he said.

Mona thanked him. Nan did not utter a word.
She would not touch the hand that would have helped
her in, and she kept her lips firmly closed throughout
the drive.

When she entered the ballroom at length her husband
was by her side, but neither by word nor look did
she acknowledge his presence there.

Jerry spied her instantly, and came towards her.
She went quickly to meet him.

“For goodness’ sake,” she whispered
urgently, “help me to get away from that man!”

“Of course,” said Jerry, promptly leading
her away in the opposite direction till the crowd
swallowed them. “Who the dickens is he?”

She looked at him with a small, piteous smile.

“His name is Piet Cradock,” she said.

“Great Scotland!” ejaculated Jerry; and
added fiercely: “What the devil has he
come back for? What does he want?”

Nan threw back her head with a sudden wild laugh.

“Guess!” she cried.

But Jerry knew without guessing, and swore savagely
under his breath.

“But you won’t go with him—­not
yet, anyhow?” he urged. “He can’t
hurry you off without consulting your convenience.
You won’t submit to that?”

An imp of mischief had begun to dance in Nan’s
eyes.

“I am told he has to sail next week,”
she said. “But I think it possible that
by that time he won’t be quite so anxious to
take me with him. Time alone will prove.
How many waltzes did you ask for?”

“As many as I can get, of course,” said
Jerry, taking instant advantage of this generous invitation.

She laughed recklessly, and gave him her card.

“Take them then, my dear boy. I am ready
to dance all night long.”

She laughed again still more recklessly when he handed
her card back to her.

“You are very daring!” she remarked.

He looked momentarily disconcerted.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“I mind? It’s what I meant you to
do,” she answered lightly. “Shall
I say you are very daring on my behalf?”

Jerry flushed a deep red.

“I would do anything under the sun for you,
Nan,” he said, in a low voice.

Whereat she laughed again—­a gay, sweet
laugh, and left him.

CHAPTER VII

Piet Cradock spent nearly the whole of that long evening
leaning against a doorpost watching his wife dancing
with Jerry Lister. They were the best-matched
couple in the room, and, as a good many remarked, they
seemed to know it.

Through every dance Nan laughed and talked with a
feverish gaiety, conscious of that long, long gaze
that never varied. She felt almost hysterical
under it at last. It made her desperate—­so
desperate that she finally quitted the ballroom altogether
in Jerry’s company, and remained invisible till
people were beginning to take their departure.

Page 69

That feeling at the back of her mind had grown to
a definite sensation that she could not longer ignore
or trample into insignificance. She was horribly
afraid of that silent man with his gloomy, inscrutable
eyes. His look frightened, almost terrified her.
She felt like a trapped creature that lies quaking
in the grass, listening to the coming footsteps of
its captor.

In a vague way Jerry was aware of her inquietude,
and when they rose at length to leave their secluded
corner, he turned and spoke with a certain blunt chivalry
that did him credit.

“I say, Nan, if things get unbearable, you’ll
promise to let me know? I’ll do anything
to help you, you know—­anything under the
sun.”

And Nan squeezed his arm tightly in acknowledgment,
though she made no verbal answer.

Amid a crowd of departing dancers they came face to
face with Piet. He was standing in an attitude
of immense patience near the door. Very quietly
he addressed her.

“Colonel Everard and your sisters have gone.
The motor is waiting to take you when you are ready.”

She started back sharply. Her nerves were on
edge, and the news was a shock. Her hand was
still on Jerry’s arm. Impulsively she turned
to him.

Jerry took her at her word on the instant, and began
to thread the way back to the ballroom. But before
they reached it a quiet hand fastened upon his shoulder,
detaining him.

“Pardon me,” said Piet Cradock, “but
my wife has had more than enough already, and I am
going to take her home!”

Jerry stopped, struck silent for the moment by sheer
astonishment.

Without further words Piet proceeded to transfer Nan’s
hand from the boy’s arm to his own. He
did it with absolute gentleness, but with a resolution
that admitted of no resistance—­at least
Nan attempted none.

But the action infuriated Jerry, and in the flurry
of the moment he completely lost his head.

“What the devil do you mean?” he demanded
loudly.

An abrupt silence fell upon the buzzing throng about
them. Through it, with unfaltering composure,
fell Piet Cradock’s reply.

“I mean exactly what I have said. If you
have any objection to raise, I am ready to deal with
it, either now or later—­as you shall choose.”

The words were hardly uttered when Nan did an extraordinary
thing. She lifted a perfectly colourless face
with a ghastly smile upon it, and held out her free
hand to Jerry.

“All right, Jerry,” she said. “I
think I’ll go after all. I am rather tired.
Good-night, dear boy! Pleasant dreams! Now,
Piet”—­she turned that quivering smile
upon her husband, and it was the bravest thing she
had ever done—­“don’t keep me
waiting. Go and get your coat, and be quick about
it; or I shall certainly be ready first.”

Page 70

He turned away at once, and the incident was over,
since by this unexpected move Nan had managed to convey
to her too ardent champion that she desired it to
be so.

He departed sullenly to the refreshment-room, mystified
but obedient and she dived hurriedly into the cloakroom
in search of her property.

She found Piet waiting for her when she came out,
and she passed forth with him to the waiting motor
with a laugh and a jest for the benefit of the onlookers.

But the moment the door closed upon them she fell
into silence, drawn back from him as far as possible,
her cold hands clenched tight under her cloak.

He did not attempt to speak to her during the quarter
of an hour’s drive, sitting mutely beside her
in statuesque stillness; and it was she who, when
he handed her out, broke the silence.

“I have something to say to you.”

He bent before her stiffly.

“I am at your service.”

There was something in his words that sounded ironical
to her, something that sent the blood to her face
in a burning wave. She turned in silence and
ascended the steps in front of him.

She found the door unlocked, but the hall was empty,
and lighted only by the great flames that spouted
up from the log-fire on the open hearth.

Clearly the rest of the family had retired, and a
sudden, sharp suspicion flashed through Nan that her
husband had deliberately laid his plans for this private
interview with her.

It set her heart pounding again within her, but she
braced herself to treat him with a high hand.
He must not, he should not, assume the mastery over
her.

Silently she waited as he shut and bolted the great
door, and then quietly crossed the shadowy hall to
join her.

She had dropped her cloak from her shoulders, and
the firelight played ruddily over her dress of shimmering
white, revealing her slim young beauty in every delicate
detail. Very pale, but erect and at least outwardly
calm, she faced him.

“What I have to say to you,” she said,
“will make you very angry; but I hope you will
have the patience to listen to me, because it must
be said.”

He did not answer. He merely stooped and stirred
the fire to a higher blaze, then turned and looked
at her with those ever-watching eyes of his.

Nan’s hands were clenched unconsciously.
She was making the greatest effort of her life.

“It has come to this,” she said, forcing
herself with all her quivering strength to speak quietly.
“I do not wish to be your wife. I have
realized for some time that my marriage was a mistake,
and I thought it possible, I hoped with all my heart,
that you would see it, too. I suppose, by your
coming back in this way, that you have not yet done
so?”

He was standing very quietly before her with his hands
behind him. Notwithstanding her wild misgiving,
she could not see that he was in any way angered by
her words. He seemed to observe her with a grave
interest. That was all.

Page 71

A tremor of passion went through her. His passivity
was not to be borne. In some curious fashion
it hurt her. She felt as though she were beating
and bruising herself against bars of iron.

“Surely,” she said, and her voice shook
in spite of her utmost effort to control it—­“surely
you must see that you are asking of me more than I
can possibly give. I own that I am—­nominally—­your
wife, but I realize now that I can never be anything
more to you than that. I cannot go away with
you. I can never make my home with you. I
married you upon impulse. I did you a great wrong,
but you will admit that you hurried me into it.
And now that—­that my eyes are open, I find
that I cannot go on. Would it—­would
it—­” She was faltering under that
unchanging gaze, but she compelled herself to utter
the question—­“be quite impossible
to—­to get a separation?”

“Quite,” said Piet.

He did not raise his voice, but she shrank at the
brief word, shrank uncontrollably as if he had struck
her.

He went on quite steadily, but his eyes gave her no
rest. They seemed to her to gleam red in the
glancing firelight.

“I do not admit that our marriage was a mistake.
I was always aware that you married me for my money.
But on the other hand I was willing to pay your price.
I wanted you. And—­I want you still.
Nothing will alter that fact. I am sorry if you
think you have made a bad bargain, for you will have
to abide by it. Perhaps some day you will change
your mind again. But it is not my habit to change
mine. That is, I think, all that need be said
upon the subject.”

There was not the faintest hint of vehemence in his
tone, but there was unmistakable authority. Having
spoken, he stood grimly waiting for her next move.

As for Nan, a sudden fury entered into her that possessed
her more completely than any fear. To be thus
mastered in a few curt sentences was more than her
wild spirit would endure. Without an instant’s
hesitation she flung down the gauntlet.

“It is true,” she said, speaking quickly,
“that I married you for your money, but since
you knew that, you were as much to blame as I. Had
I known then what sort of man you were, I would sooner
have gone into the workhouse. I am quite aware
that it is thanks to you that my father is not a ruined
man, but I—­I protest against being made
the price for your benefits. I will never touch
another penny of your money myself, and neither shall
any of my family if I can prevent it. As to abiding
by my bargain, I refuse absolutely and unconditionally.
I do not acknowledge your authority over me.
I will be no man’s slave, and—­and,
sooner than live with you as your wife, I—­I
will die in a ditch!”

Furiously she flung the words at him, too much carried
away by her own madness to note their effect upon
him, too angry to see the sudden, leaping flame in
his eyes; too utterly reckless to realize that fire
kindles fire.

Page 72

Her fierce wrath was in its way sublime. She
was like a beautiful, wild creature raging at its
captor, too infuriated to be afraid.

There was scorn as well as defiance in her voice—­scorn
because he stood before her so silently; scorn because
the fierce torrent of her anger had flowed unchecked.
She had only to stand up to him, it seemed, and like
the giant of the fable he dwindled to a pigmy.
She was no longer hurt by his passivity. She
despised him for it.

But it was for the last time in her life. As
she turned contemptuously to pick up her cloak, he
moved.

With a single stride he had reached her, and in an
instant his hand was on her arm, his face was close
to hers. And then she saw, what she had been
too self-engrossed to see before, that fire had kindled
fire indeed, and that those rash words of hers had
waked the savage in him.

She made a sharp, instinctive effort to free herself,
but he held her fast. She had outrun his patience
at last.

“So,” he said, “you defy me, do
you? You defy me to take what is my own?
That is not very wise of you.”

He spoke under his breath, and as he spoke he drew
her to him suddenly, violently, with a strength that
was brutal. For a moment his eyes compelled hers,
terrible eyes alight with a passion that scorched her
with its fiery intensity. And then abruptly his
arms tightened. She was at his mercy, and he
did not spare her. Savagely, fiercely, he rained
burning kisses upon her shrinking face, upon her neck,
her shoulders, her hands, till, after many seconds
of vain resistance, spent, quivering, terrified, she
broke into agonized tears against his breast.

His hold relaxed then, but tightened again as her
trembling limbs refused to support her. He held
her for a while till her agitation had in some degree
subsided; then at last he took her two shaking hands
into one of his, and turned her face upwards.

Once more his eyes held hers, but the fire in them
had died down to a smoulder. His mouth was grim.

“Come!” he said quietly, “you won’t
defy me after this?”

Her white lips only quivered in reply. She made
no further effort to resist him.

Very slowly he took his arm from her, still holding
her hands.

“You have married a savage,” he said,
“but you would never have known it if you had
not taunted me with your defiance. Let me tell
you now—­for it is as well that you should
know it—­that there is nothing—­do
you hear?—­nothing in this world that I
cannot make you do if I so choose! But if you
are wise, you will not challenge me to prove this.
It is enough for you to know that as I have mastered
myself, so I can—­and so I will—­master
you!”

His words fell with a ring of iron. The old inflexibly
sombre demeanour by which alone till that night she
had always known him clothed him like a coat of mail.
Only the grasp of his hand was vital and close.
It seemed to burn her flesh.

Page 73

“I have done!” he said, after a pause.
“Have you anything further to say to me?”

She found it within her power to free herself, and
did so. She was shaking from head to foot.
The untamed violence of the man had appalled her,
but his abrupt resumption of self-control was almost
more terrible. She felt as if his will compassed
and constrained her like bands of iron.

She stood before him in panting silence, a shrinking
woman, striving vainly to raise from the dust the
shield of pride that he had so rudely shattered and
flung aside. She could not speak to him.
She had no words. From the depths of her soul
she hated him. But—­it had come to this—­she
did not dare to tell him so.

He waited quietly for a few seconds; then unexpectedly,
but without vehemence, he held out his hand to her.

“Anne,” he said, a subtle change in his
deep voice, “fight against me, and you will
be miserable, for I am bound to conquer you. But
come to me—­come to me of your own free
will—­and I swear before Heaven that I will
make you happy.”

But Nan held back with horror, almost with loathing,
in her eyes. She did not utter a word. There
was no need.

His hand fell. For a second the fire that smouldered
in his eyes shot upwards to a flame, but it died down
again instantly. He turned from her in silence
and picked up her cloak.

He did not look at her as he handed it to her, and
Nan did not dare to look at him. Dumbly she forced
her trembling body into subjection to her will.
She crossed the hall without faltering, and went without
sound or backward glance up the stairs. And the
man was left alone in the flickering firelight.

CHAPTER VIII

To Mona fell the task of making preparation for Nan’s
departure, for Nan herself did not raise a finger
to that end. Three days only remained to her
of the old free life—­three days in which
to bid farewell to everybody and everything she knew
and loved.

Her husband did not attempt to obtrude his presence
upon her during those three days. The man’s
patience was immense, cloaking him as with a garment
of passive strength. He was merely a guest in
Colonel Everard’s house, and a silent guest
at that.

No one knew what had passed between him and his young
wife on the night of the Hunt Ball, but it was generally
understood that he had asserted his authority over
her after a fashion that admitted of no resistance.
Only Mona could have told of the white-faced, terrified
girl who had lain trembling in her arms all through
the dark hours that had followed their interview,
but Mona knew when to hold her peace, though it was
no love for her brother-in-law that sealed her lips.

So, with a set face, she packed her sister’s
belongings, never faltering, scarcely pausing for
thought, till on the very last day she finished her
task, and then sat musing alone in the darkness of
the winter evening.

Page 74

Nan had been out all the afternoon, no one knew exactly
where, though it was supposed that she was paying
farewell visits. The Colonel, whose courteous
instincts would not suffer him to neglect a guest,
had been out shooting with his son-in-law all day
long. Mona heard them come tramping up the drive
and enter the house, as she sat above in the dark.
She listened without moving, and knew that one of
her sisters was giving them tea in the hall.

Two hours passed, but Nan did not return. Mona
rose at last to dress for dinner. Her face shone
pale as she lighted her lamp, but her eyes were steadfast;
they held no anxiety.

Descending the stairs at length she found Piet waiting
below before the fire. He looked round as she
came down, looked up the stairs beyond her, and gravely
rose to give her his chair.

Mona was generally regarded as hostess in her father’s
house, though she was not his eldest daughter.
She possessed a calmness of demeanour that was conspicuously
lacking in all the rest.

She sat down quietly, her hands folded about her knees.
“Have you had good sport?” she asked,
her serene eyes raised to his.

There was a slight frown between Piet’s brows.
Hitherto he had always regarded this girl as his friend.
To-night, for the first time, she puzzled him.
There was something hostile about her something he
felt rather than saw, yet of which from the very moment
of her coming, he was keenly conscious.

He scarcely answered her query. Already his wits
were at work.

Suddenly he asked her a blunt question. “Has
Anne come in yet?”

She answered him quite as bluntly, almost as if she
had wished for his curt interrogation. “No.”

He raised his brows for an instant, then in part reassured
by her absolute composure, he merely commented:
“She is late.”

Mona said nothing. She turned her quiet eyes
to the blaze before her. There was not the faintest
sign of agitation in her bearing.

“Do you know what she is doing?” He asked
the question slowly, half reluctantly it seemed.

Again she looked at him. Clear and contemptuous,
her eyes met his.

“Yes, I know.”

The words, the look, stabbed him with a swift suspicion.
He bent towards her, his hand gripped her wrist.

“What do you mean? Where is she?”

She made no movement to avoid him. A faint, grim
smile hovered about her calm mouth.

“I can tell you what I mean,” she said
quietly. “I cannot tell you where she is.”

“Then tell me what you mean,” he said
between his teeth.

His face was close to hers, and in that moment it
was terrible. But Mona did not flinch. The
small, bitter smile passed, that was all.

“I mean,” she said, speaking very steadily
and distinctly, “that you will go back to South
Africa without her after all. I mean that by your
hateful and contemptible brutality you have driven
her from you for ever. I mean that you have forced
her into taking a step that will compel you to set
her free from your tyranny. I mean that simply
and solely to escape from you she has run away with—­another
man.”

Page 75

A quiver of pain went over her face as she ended.
With a swift, passionate movement she rose, flinging
her mask of composure aside. The hand that gripped
her wrist was bruising her flesh, but she never felt
it.

“Yes,” she said, with abrupt vehemence.
“That is what you have done—­you—­you!
You would not stoop to win her. You chose to take
her by force, and force is the one thing in the world
that she will never tolerate. You bullied her,
frightened her, humiliated her. You drove her
to do this desperate thing. And you face me now,
you dare to face me, because I am a weak woman.
If I were a man, I would kick you out of the house.
I—­I believe I would kill you! Even
Nan cannot hate you or despise you one-tenth as much
as I do!”

She ceased, but her eyes blazed their hatred at him
as her heart cursed him. She was furious as a
tigress that defends her young.

As for the man, his hand was still clenched upon her
wrist, but no violent outburst escaped him. He
was white to the lips, but he was absolutely sane.
If he heard her wild reproaches, he passed them over.

“Who is the man?” he said, and his voice
fell like a word of command, arresting, controlling,
compelling.

It was not what she had expected. She had been
prepared for tempestuous, for overwhelming, wrath.
The absence of this oddly disconcerted her. Her
own tornado of indignation was checked. She answered
him almost involuntarily.

“Jerry Lister.”

He frowned as if trying to recall the owner of the
name, and again without her conscious will she explained.

“You saw him that night at the ball. They
were together all the evening.”

The frown passed from his face.

“That—­cub!” he said slowly.
“And”—­his eyes were searching
hers closely; he spoke with unswerving determination—­“where
have they gone?”

She withstood his look though she felt its compulsion.

“I refuse to tell you that.”

“You know?” he questioned.

“Yes, I know.”

“Then you will tell me.” He spoke
with conviction. She felt as if his eyes were
burning her.

“Then you will tell me,” he repeated,
as if she had not heard him.

“I refuse,” she said again; but she said
it with a wavering resolution. Undoubtedly there
was something colossal about this man. She began
to feel the grip of his fingers upon her wrist.
The pain of it became intense, yet she knew that he
was not intentionally torturing her.

“You are hurting me,” she said, and instantly
his hold relaxed. But he did not let her go.

“Answer me!” he said.

“Why should I answer you?” It was the
last resort of her weakening will.

“Then—­then—­” She
was looking straight into those pitiless eyes.
It seemed she could not help herself. “I
will tell you,” she said at last. “But
you will be kind to her? You will remember how
young she is, and that—­that you drove her
to it?”

Her voice was piteous, her resistance was dead.

“I shall remember,” he said very quietly,
“one thing only.”

“Yes?” she murmured. “Yes?”

“That she is my wife,” he said, in the
same level tone. “Now—­answer
me.”

And because there was no longer any alternative course,
she yielded.

Had he shown himself a raging demon she could have
resisted him, and rejoiced in it. But this man,
with his rigid self-control, his unswerving resolution,
his deadly directness, dominated her irresistibly.

Without argument he had changed her point of view.
Without argument or protestation of any sort, he had
convinced her that it was no passing fancy of his
that had prompted him to choose Nan for his wife.
She had vaguely suspected it before. Now she
knew.

CHAPTER IX

It was very dark over the moors. The solitary
lights of a cab crawling almost at a foot pace along
the lonely road shone like a will-o’-the-wisp
through the snow. It had been snowing for hours,
steadily, thickly, and the cold was intense.
The dead heather by the roadside had long been completely
hidden under that ever-increasing load. It lay
in great billows of white wherever the carriage lamps
revealed it, stretching away into the darkness, an
immense, untrodden desert, wrapped in a deathly silence,
more terrible than any sound.

It seemed to Nan, shivering inside that cheerless
cab, as if the world had stopped like a run-down watch,
and that she alone, with her melancholy equipage,
retained in all that vast stillness the power to move.

She wished heartily that she had permitted Jerry to
come to the station to meet her, but for some reason
not wholly intelligible to herself she had prohibited
this. And he, ever obedient to her behests, had
sent the conveyance to fetch her, remaining behind
himself to complete the preparations for her reception
upon which he had been engaged for the past two days
at the tiny, incommodious shooting-box which his father
had bequeathed to him, and of which not very valuable
piece of landed property he was somewhat inordinately
proud.

It had been a tedious cross-country journey, and the
five miles from the station seemed to Nan interminable.
Already deep down in her heart were stirring ghastly
doubts regarding the advisability of this mad expedition
of hers. Jerry, as she well knew, was fully prepared
to enjoy the situation to the utmost. He was
a trusty friend in need to her, no more, and she had
not the smallest misgiving so far as he was concerned.

Page 77

He would be to her what he had ever been, breezy comrade,
merry friend—­romantic cavalier, perhaps,
but in such a fashion as to convince her that he was
only playing at romance. It had always been his
attitude towards her, and she anticipated no change.
The boy’s natural chivalry had moved her to
accept his help, though she well knew that the step
she had taken was a desperate one, even for one of
the wild Everards. That it would fulfil its purpose
she did not doubt. Her husband, she was fully
convinced, would take no further steps to deprive her
of her liberty. Her notions of legal procedure
in such a case were of the haziest, but she had not
the faintest doubt that this last, wildest escapade
of hers would sooner or later procure her her freedom
from the chain that so galled her.

And yet she started and shivered at every creak of
the crazy vehicle that was bearing her to the haven
of her emancipation. She was horribly, unreasonably
afraid, now that she had taken this rash step.
Would it upset her father very greatly, she wondered?
But surely he would not think badly of her for making
a way of escape for herself. He had been powerless
to deliver her. Surely, surely he would understand!

The cab jolted to a standstill, and out of the darkness
came an eager, boyish voice, bidding her welcome.
An impetuous hand wrenched open the door, and she
and Jerry were face to face.

She never recalled afterwards crossing the threshold
of his little abode. She was numbed and weary
in mind and body. But she found herself at length
seated before a bright fire, with a cup of steaming
tea in her hand, and Jerry hovering about her in high
delight; and the comfort of his welcome revived her
at length to an active realization of her surroundings.

Clearly the adventure, mad, lawless as it undoubtedly
was, was nothing but a picnic to him. He was
enjoying himself immensely without a thought of any
possible consequences, and it was plain that this was
the attitude in which he expected her to regard the
matter.

With an effort she responded to his mood, but she
could not shake off the burden of doubt and foreboding
that oppressed her. She felt as if the long,
bitter journey had in some fashion aged her. Jerry’s
gaiety was as the prattle of a child to her now.
They had been children together till that day, but
she felt that they could never be so again. Never
before had she stopped in her headlong course to look
ahead, to count the cost! Now, for the first
time, misgivings arose within her upon Jerry’s
score. What if this boy who had lent himself
so lightly, so absolutely freely, to her scheme for
deliverance, were made in any way to suffer for his
reckless generosity? For this it had been with
him—­and this only—­as she well
knew.

With sheer, boyish gallantry, he had offered his protection;
with sheer, girlish recklessness, she had accepted
it. And now—­now she had in a few hours
crossed the boundary between childhood and womanhood
and she stood aghast, asking herself what she had
done!

Page 78

By what means understanding had come to her she did
not stay to question. The tragic force of it
overwhelmed all reasoning. She knew beyond all
doubting that she had made the most ghastly mistake
of her life. She had done it in blindness, but
the veil had been rent away; and, horror-struck, she
now beheld the accursed quicksand into which they had
blundered.

“I say,” said Jerry, “you’re
awfully tired, aren’t you? You’re
positively haggard. I’ve got quite a decent
little dinner for you, and I’ve done every blessed
thing myself. There isn’t a soul in the
house except us two. I thought you’d like
it best.”

She smiled at him wanly, and thanked him. He
was watching her with friendly, anxious eyes.

“Yes; well, drink that up and have some more.
I’m afraid you’ll think the accommodation
rather poor. It’s only a pillbox, you know.
I’ll show you round when you’re ready.
I’ve got my kennel in the kitchen. Best
place for a watch-dog, eh? But you’ve only
got to thump on the floor if you want anything.
There, that’s better. You don’t look
quite so frozen as you did. Come, it’s
rather a lark, isn’t it?”

His boyish eyes pleaded with her, and again she made
a valiant effort to respond. She knew what stupendous
efforts he had been making to secure her comfort.

“Everything is perfect,” she declared,
“and you’re the nicest boy in the world.
I’m quite warm now. What a dear little hall,
to be sure!”

“Hall!” said Jerry. “It’s
the living-room! But there’s another one
upstairs that you can sit in. I thought you would
like the upper regions all to yourself. We can
call on each other, you know, now and then. I
say, it’s rather a lark, isn’t it?
Come and see my preparations for dinner.”

She went with him into the little bare kitchen, and
bestowed lavish praise upon everything she saw.

Jerry’s cooking was an accomplishment of which
he had some reason to be proud. He was roasting
a pheasant for his visitor’s delectation.

“I always do the cooking when we camp out,”
he explained. “Just sit down while I finish
peeling the potatoes.”

He pointed to a truckle bedstead in the corner; and
Nan seated herself and made a determined effort to
banish her depression.

Jerry’s preparations for his own comfort were
anything but elaborate.

“Oh, I could sleep on bare boards,” he
lightly said, when she commented upon the hardness
of his couch. “I know the furniture isn’t
up to much, but it isn’t a bad little shanty
when you’re used to it. My pater and mater
spent their honeymoon here years ago, and I stayed
here with two other fellows for three weeks’
grouse-shooting a couple of years back. Rare
sport we had, too. Do you mind passing over that
saucepan? Thanks! I say, Nan, I hope you
don’t mind it being a bit rough.”

“My dear boy,” Nan said impulsively, “if
it were a palace I shouldn’t like it half so
well.”

Page 79

Jerry grinned serenely.

“Yes, it’s snug, anyhow, and I think you’ll
like that pheasant. There’s another one
in the larder, so we shall have something to eat if
we’re snowed up. That cupboard leads upstairs.
Perhaps you would like to go and explore. Dinner
in half an hour.”

Nan availed herself of this suggestion. She was
frankly curious to know what Jerry’s ideas of
feminine comfort might be. She ascended the steep
cottage stairs that wound up to the first floor, looking
about her with considerable interest. The narrow
staircase was lighted from above, and she finally
emerged into a little room in which a fire burned brightly.
A sofa had been drawn in front of it, and was piled
with cushions. There were one or two basket-chairs,
and a small square table bearing a paper-shaded lamp,
and a newspaper, a “Punch,” Jerry’s
banjo, and a cigarette case.

The window was covered with a red curtain, and the
cosy warmth of the place sent a glow of comfort through
Nan. Jerry’s efforts had not been in vain.

From this apartment she passed into another beyond,
the door of which stood half open, and found herself
in a bedroom. A small stove burned in a corner
of this, and upon it a kettle steamed merrily.
There was room for but little furniture besides the
bed, but the general effect was exceedingly comforting
to the girl’s oppressed soul. She sat down
on the edge of the bed and leaned her aching head
against the back.

What was happening at home she wondered? Her
departure must be known by this time. Mona would
have told Piet. She tried to picture the man’s
untrammelled wrath when he heard. How furious
he would be! She shivered a little. She
was quite sure he would never want to see her again.

And yet, curiously, there still ran in her brain those
words he had uttered on that night that she had defied
him—­that dreadful night when he had held
her in his arms and forced her to endure his hateful
kisses!

She could almost hear his deep voice speaking:
“Anne, fight against me and you will be miserable,
for I am bound to conquer you. But come to me—­come
to me of your own free will—­and I swear
before Heaven that I will make you happy!” Make
her happy! He! She could not imagine it.
And yet it was true that, fighting against him, she
was miserable.

With a great sigh, she rose at last and began to remove
her outdoor things. It was done—­it
was done. What was the use of stopping on the
wrong side of the hedge to think? She had taken
the leap. There could never be any return for
her. The actual mistake had been committed long,
long ago, when she had married this man for his money.
That had been monstrous, contemptible! She realized
it now. But that, too, was beyond remedy.
Her only hope left was that in his fury he would set
her free, and that without injury to Jerry. She
had not the faintest notion how he would set about
it; but doubtless he would not keep her long in ignorance.
He would be more eager now than she had ever been to
snap asunder the chain that bound them to each other.
Yes, she was quite, quite sure that he would never
want to see her again.

Page 80

CHAPTER X

Jerry’s dinner was not, for some reason, quite
the success he had anticipated.

Nan made no complaint of the cooking, but she ate
next to nothing, to the grief of his hospitable soul.
She was tired, of course, but there was something
in her manner that he could not fathom. She was
silent and unresponsive. There was almost an
air of tragedy about her that made her so unfamiliar
that he felt as if he were entertaining a stranger.
He did not like the change. His old domineering,
impetuous playfellow was infinitely easier to understand.
He did not feel at ease with this quiet, white-faced
woman, who treated him with such wholly unaccustomed
courtesy.

“I say,” he said, when the meal was ended,
“let’s go upstairs and have a smoke.
I can clear away after you have gone to bed. Or
do you want to go to bed now? It’s nearly
nine, so you may if you like.”

She thanked him, and declined.

“I shouldn’t sleep if I did,” she
said with a shiver. “No; I will help you
wash up, and then we will go upstairs and have some
music.”

Jerry fell in eagerly with this idea. He loved
his banjo. He demurred a little at accepting
her assistance in the kitchen, but finally yielded,
for she would not be refused. She seemed to dread
the thought of solitude.

When they went upstairs at length, she made a great
effort to shake off her depression. She even
sang a little to one or two of Jerry’s melodies,
but her customary high spirits remained conspicuously
absent, and after a while Jerry became impatient,
and laid the instrument down.

“What’s the matter?” he asked bluntly.

Nan was sitting with her feet on the fender, her eyes
upon the flames. His question did not seem to
surprise her.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said,
“if I were to tell you.”

“Well, you might as well give me the chance,”
he responded. “My intelligence is up to
the average, I dare say.”

She looked round at him with a faint smile.

“Oh, don’t be huffy, dear boy! Why
should you? You want to know what is the matter?
Well, I’ll tell you. I’m afraid—­I’m
horribly afraid—­that I’ve made a
great mistake.”

“You have?” said Jerry. “How?
What do you mean?”

“I knew you would ask that,” she said,
with a little, helpless gesture of the shoulders.
“And it is just that that I can’t explain
to you. You see, Jerry, I’ve only just
begun to realize it myself.”

Jerry was staring at her blankly.

“Do you mean, that you wish you hadn’t
come?” he said.

She nodded, rising suddenly from her chair.

“Oh, Jerry, don’t be vexed, though you’ve
a perfect right. I’ve made a ghastly, a
perfectly hideous mistake. I—­I can’t
think how I ever came to do it. But—­but
I wouldn’t mind so frightfully if it weren’t
for you. That’s what troubles me most—­to
have made a horrible mess of my life, and to have
dragged you into it.” Her voice shook, and
she broke off for a moment, biting her lips.
Then: “Oh, Jerry,” she wailed, “I’ve
done a dreadful thing—­a dreadful thing!
Don’t you see it—­what he will think
of me—­how he will despise me?”

Page 81

The last words came muffled through her hands.
Her head was bowed against the chimney-piece.

Jerry was nonplussed. He rose somewhat awkwardly,
and drew near the bowed figure.

“But, my dear girl,” he said, laying a
slightly hesitating hand upon her shoulder, “what
the devil does it matter what he thinks? Surely
you don’t—­you can’t care—­care
the toss of a half-penny?”

But here she amazed him still further.

“I do, Jerry, I do!” she whispered vehemently.
“He’s horrid—­oh, he’s
horrid. But I can’t help caring. I
wanted him to think the very worst possible of me
before I came. But now—­but now—­Then
too, there’s you,” she ended irrelevantly.
“What could they do to you, Jerry? Could
they put you in prison?”

“Great Scott, no!” said Jerry. “You
needn’t cry over me. I always manage to
fall on my feet. And, anyhow, it isn’t a
hanging matter. I say, cheer up, Nan, old girl!
Don’t you think you’d better go to bed?
No? Well, let me play you something cheerful,
then. I’ve never seen you in the dumps
before. And I don’t like it. I quite
thought this would be one of our red-letter days.
Look up, I say! I believe you’re crying.”

Nan was not crying, but such was the concern in his
voice that she raised her head and smiled to reassure
him.

“You’re very, very good to me, Jerry,”
she said earnestly. “And oh, I do hope
I haven’t got you into trouble!”

“Don’t you worry your head about me,”
said Jerry cheerfully. “You’re tired
out, you know. You really ought to go to bed.
Let’s have something rousing, with a chorus,
and then we’ll say good-night.”

He took up his banjo again, and dashed without preliminary
into the gay strains of “The Girl I Left Behind
Me.”

He sang with a gaiety that even Nan did not imagine
to be feigned, and, lest lack of response should again
damp his spirits, she forced herself to join in the
refrain. Faster and faster went Jerry’s
fingers, faster and faster ran the song, his voice
and Nan’s mingling, till at last he broke off
with a shout of laughter, and sprang to his feet.

“There! That’s the end of our soiree,
and I’m not going to keep you up a minute longer.
I wonder if we’re snowed up yet. We’ll
have some fun to-morrow, if we are. I say, look
at the time! Good-night! Good-night!”

He advanced towards her. She was standing facing
him, with her back to the fire. But something—­something
in her eyes—­arrested him, sending his own
glancing backwards over his shoulder. She was
looking, not at him, but beyond him.

The next instant, with a sharp oath, Jerry had wheeled
in his tracks. He, too, stood facing the door,
staring wide-eyed, dumbfounded.

There, at the head of the stairs, quite motionless,
quite silent, facing them both, stood Piet Cradock.

CHAPTER XI

Page 82

Nan was the first to free herself from the nightmare
paralysis that bound her. Swiftly, as though
in answer to a sudden inner urging, she moved forward.
She almost pushed past Jerry in her haste. She
was white, white to the lips with fear, but she never
faltered till she stood between her husband and the
boy she had chosen to protect her. The first glimpse
of Piet had revealed to her in what mood he had come.
In his right hand he was gripping her father’s
heaviest hunting-crop.

He came slowly forward, ignoring her. His eyes
were upon Jerry, who glared back at him like a young
panther. He did not appear to be aware of Nan.

Suddenly he spoke, briefly, grimly every word clean
as a pistol-shot.

“I suppose you are old enough to know what you
are doing?”

“What do you mean?” demanded Jerry, in
fierce response. “What are you doing here?
And how the devil did you get in? This place belongs
to me!”

“I know.” Piet’s face was contemptuous.
He seemed to speak through closed lips. “That
is why I came. I wanted you.”

“What do you want me for?” flashed back
Jerry, with clenched hands. “If you have
anything to say, you’d better say it downstairs.”

“I have nothing whatever to say.”
There was a deep sound in Piet’s voice that
was something more than a menace. Abruptly he
squared his great shoulders, and brought the weapon
he carried into full view.

Jerry’s eyes blazed at the action.

“You be damned!” he exclaimed loudly.
“I’ll fight you with pleasure, but not
before—­”

“You will do nothing of the sort!” thundered
Piet, striding forward. “You will take
a horse-whipping from me here and now, and in my wife’s
presence. You have behaved like a cur, and she
shall see you treated as such.”

The words were like the bellow of a goaded bull.
Another instant, and he would have been at hand grips
with the boy, but in that instant Nan sprang.
With the strength of desperation, she threw herself
against him, caught wildly at his arms, his shoulders,
clinging at last with frenzied fingers to his breast.

“You shan’t do it!” she gasped,
struggling with him. “You shan’t do
it! If—­if you must punish anyone,
punish me! Piet, listen to me! Oh listen!
I am to blame for this! You can’t—­you
shan’t—­hurt him just because he has
stood by me when—­when I most wanted a friend.
Do you hear me, Piet? You shan’t do it!
Beat me, if you like! I deserve it. He doesn’t!”

“I will deal with you afterwards,” he
said, sweeping her hands from his coat at a single
gesture.

But she caught at the hand that sought to brush her
aside, caught and held it, clinging so fast to his
arm that without actual violence he could not free
himself.

He stood still, then, his eyes glowering ruddily over
her head at Jerry, who stamped and swore behind her.

“Anne,” he said, and the sternness of
his voice was like a blow, “go into the next
room!”

Page 83

“I will not!” she gasped back. “I
will not!”

Her face was raised to his. With her left hand
she sought and grasped his right wrist. Her whole
body quivered against him, but she stood her ground.

“I shall hurt you!” he said between his
teeth.

“I don’t care!” she cried back hysterically.
“You—­you can kill me, if you like!”

He turned his eyes suddenly upon her, flaming them
straight into hers mercilessly, scorchingly.
She felt as though an electric current had run through
her, so straight, so piercing was his look. But
she met it fully, with wide, unflinching eyes, while
her fingers still clutched desperately at his iron
wrists.

“Nan! Nan! For Heaven’s sake
go, and leave us to fight it out!” implored
Jerry. “This can’t be settled with
you here. You are only making things worse for
yourself. You don’t suppose I’m afraid
of him, do you?”

She did not so much as hear him. All her physical
strength was leaving her; but still, panting and quivering,
she met those fiery, searching eyes.

Suddenly she knew that her hold upon him was weaker
than a child’s. She made a convulsive effort
to renew it, failed, and fell forward against him
with a gasping cry.

“Piet!” she whispered, in nerveless entreaty.
“Piet!”

He put his arm around her, supporting her; then as
he felt her weight upon him he bent and gathered her
bodily into his arms. She sank into them, more
nearly fainting than she had ever been in her life;
and, straightening himself, he turned rigidly, and
bore her into the inner room.

He laid her upon the bed there, but still with shaking,
powerless fingers she tried to cling to him.

“Don’t leave me! Don’t go!”
she besought him.

He took her hands and put them from him. He turned
to leave her, but even then she caught his sleeve.

“Piet, I—­I want to—­to
tell you something,” she managed to say.

He wheeled round and bent over her. There was
something of violence in his action.

Under the compulsion of his look and voice she submitted
at last. Trembling she hid her face.

And in another moment she heard his step as he went
out, heard him close the door and the sharp click
of the key as he turned it in the lock.

CHAPTER XII

For many, many seconds after his departure she lay
without breathing, exactly as he had left her, listening,
listening with all the strength that remained to her
for the sounds of conflict.

But all she heard was Piet’s voice pitched so
low that she could not catch a word. Then came
Jerry’s in sharp, staccato tones. He seemed
to be surprised at something, surprised and indignant.
Twice she heard him fling out an emphatic denial.
And, while she still listened with a panting heart,
there came the tread of their feet upon the stairs,
and she knew that they had descended to the lower regions.

Page 84

For a long, long while she still crouched there listening,
but there came to her straining ears no hubbub of
blows—­only the sound of men’s voices
talking together in the room below her, with occasional
silences between. Once indeed she fancied that
Jerry spoke with passionate vehemence, but the outburst—­if
such it were—­evoked no response.

Slowly the minutes dragged away. It was growing
very late. What could be happening? What
were they saying to each other? When—­when
would this terrible strain of waiting be over?

Hark! What was that? The tread of feet once
more and the sound of an opening door. Ah, what
were they doing? What? What?

Trembling afresh she raised herself on the bed to
listen. There came to her the sudden throbbing
of a motor-engine. He had come in his car, then,
and now he was going, going without another word to
her, leaving her alone with Jerry. The conviction
came upon her like a stunning blow, depriving her
for the moment of all reason. She leapt from the
bed and threw herself against the door, battering
against it wildly with her fists.

She must see him again! She must! She must!
She would not be deserted thus! The bare thought
was intolerable to her. Did he hold her so lightly
as this, then—­that, having followed her
a hundred miles through blinding snow, he could turn
his back upon her and leave her thus?

That could only mean but one thing, and her blood
turned to fire as she realized it. It meant that
he would have no more of her, that he deemed her unworthy,
that—­that he intended to set her free!

But she could not bear it! She would not!
She would not! She would escape. She would
force Jerry to let her go. She would follow him
through that dreadful wilderness of snow. She
would run in the tracks of his wheels until she found
him.

And then she would force him—­she would
force him—­to listen to her while she poured
out to him the foolish, the pitiably foolish truth!

But what if he would not believe her? What then?
What then? She had sunk to her knees before the
door, still beating madly upon it, and crying wildly
at the keyhole for Jerry to come and set her free.

In every pause she heard the buzzing of the engine.
It seemed to her to hold a jeering note. The
outer door was open, and an icy draught blew over
her face as she knelt there waiting for Jerry.
She broke off again to listen, and heard the muffled
sounds of wheels in the snow. Then came the note
of the hooter, mockingly distinct; and then the hum
of the engine receding from the house. The outer
door banged, and the icy draught suddenly ceased.

With a loud cry she flung herself once more at the
unyielding panels, bruising hands and shoulders against
the senseless wood.

Page 85

She heard a step upon the stairs. He was coming.

In a frenzy she beat and shook the door to make him
hasten. She was ready to fly forth like a whirlwind
in the wake of the speeding motor. For she must
follow him, she must overtake him; she must—­Heaven
help her! She must somehow make him understand!

Oh, why was Jerry so slow? Every instant was
increasing the distance between her and that buzzing
motor. She screamed to him in an agony of impatience
to hurry, to hurry, only to hurry.

He did not call in answer, but at last, at last, his
hand was on the door.

She stumbled to her feet as the key grated in the
lock, and dragged fiercely at the handle. It
resisted her, for there was another hand upon it,
and with an exclamation of fierce impatience she snatched
her own away.

“Oh, be quick!” she cried hysterically.
“Be quick! He is miles away by this time.
I shall never catch him, and I must, I must!”

The door opened. She dashed forward. But
a man’s arm barred her progress, and with a
cry she drew back. The next moment she reeled
as she stood, reeled gasping till she slipped and
slid to the floor at his feet. The man upon the
threshold was her husband!

CHAPTER XIII

In silence he lifted her and laid her again upon the
bed. His touch was perfectly gentle, but there
was no kindness in it, no warmth of any sort.
And Nan turned her face into the pillow and sobbed
convulsively. How could she tell him now?

He began to walk up and down the tiny room, still
maintaining that ominous silence. But she sobbed
on, utterly unstrung, utterly hopeless, utterly spent.

He paused at last, and poured some water into a glass.

“Drink this,” he said, stopping beside
her. “And then lie quiet until I speak
to you.”

But she could neither raise herself nor take the glass.
He stooped and lifted her, holding the water to her
trembling lips. She leaned against him with closed
eyes while she drank. She was painfully anxious
to avoid his look. And yet when he laid her down,
the sobbing began again, though she struggled feebly
to repress it.

He fetched a chair at last and sat down beside her,
gravely waiting till her breathing became less distressed.
Then, finding her calmer, he finally spoke:

“You need not be afraid of me, Anne. I
shall not hurt you.”

“I am not afraid,” she whispered back.

He sat silent for a space, not looking at her.
At last:

“Can you attend to me now?” he asked her
formally.

She raised herself slowly.

“May I say something first?” she said.

He turned his brooding eyes upon her.

“If you can say it quietly,” he said.

She pressed her hand to her throat.

“You—­will listen to me, and—­and
believe me?”

“I shall know if you lie to me,” he said.

Page 86

She made a sharp gesture of protest.

“I don’t deserve that,” she said.
“You know it.”

His grim lips relaxed a very little.

“I shouldn’t talk about deserts if I were
you,” he said.

His tone scared her again, but she made a valiant
effort to compose herself.

“You say that,” she said, “because
you are very angry with me. I don’t dispute
your right to be angry. I know I’ve made
a fool of you. But—­but after all”—­her
voice began to shake uncontrollably; she forced out
the words with difficulty—­“I’ve
made a much bigger fool of myself. I think you
might consider that.”

He did consider it with drawn brows.

“Does that improve your case?” he asked
at length.

She did not answer him. She was trying hard to
read his face, but it told her nothing. With
a swift movement she slipped to her feet and stood
before him.

“I don’t know,” she said, speaking
fast and passionately, “what you have in your
mind. I don’t know what you think of me.
But I suppose you mean to punish me in some way, to—­to
give me a lesson that will hurt me all my life.
You have me at your mercy, and—­and I shall
have to bear it, whatever it is. But before—­before
you make me hate you, let me say this: I am your
wife. Hadn’t you better remember that before
you punish me? I—­I shan’t hate
you so badly so long as I know that you remember that.”

She stopped. She was wringing her hands fast
together to subdue her agitation.

Piet had risen with her, but she could no longer search
his face. She had said that she did not fear
him, but in that moment she was more horribly afraid
than she had ever been in her life.

She thought that he would never break his silence.
Had she angered him even further by those words of
hers, she wondered desperately? And if so—­oh!
if so—­Suddenly he spoke, and every pulse
in her body leaped and quivered.

“Since when,” he said, “have you
begun to remember that?”

“I have never forgotten it,” she said,
in a voiceless whisper.

He took her hands, separated them, held up the left
before her eyes.

“Never?” he said. “Be careful
what you say to me.”

She looked up with a flash of the old quick pride.

“I have spoken the truth,” she said.
“Why should I be careful?”

He dropped her hand.

“What have you done with your wedding-ring?”

“I—­lost it.” Nan’s
voice and eyes sank together. “It was an
accident,” she said. “We dropped
it in the lake.”

“We?” said Piet.

She made a little hopeless gesture.

“Yes, Jerry and I. It’s no good telling
you how it happened. You won’t believe
me if I do.”

He made no comment. Only after a moment he put
his hand on her shoulder.

“Have you anything else to say?” he asked.

She shook her head without speaking. She was
shivering all over.

Page 87

“Very well, then,” he said. “Come
into the other room—­you seem cold.”

She went with him submissively. The fire had
sunk low, and he replenished it. The hunting
crop that he had brought from her father’s house
lay on the table with Jerry’s banjo. He
picked it up and put it away in a corner.

“Sit down,” he said.

She sank upon the sofa, hiding her face. He took
up his stand on the rug, facing her.

“Now,” he said quietly, “do you
remember my telling you that you had married a savage?
I see you do. And you are afraid of me in consequence.
I am a savage. I admit it. I hurt you that
night. I meant to hurt you. I meant you
to see that I was in earnest. I meant you to realize
that you were my wife. I meant—­I still
mean—­to master you. But I did not mean
to terrify you as you were terrified, as you are terrified
now. I made a mistake, and for that mistake I
desire to apologize.”

He stooped and drew one of her hands away from her
face.

“You defied me,” he said. “Do
you remember? And I am not accustomed to defiance.
Nor will I bear it from anyone—­my wife least
of all. I am not threatening you; I am simply
showing you what you must learn to expect from me,
from the savage you have married. It is not my
intention to frighten you. I am no longer angry
with either you or the young fool whom you call your
friend. By the way, I have not done him any violence.
He has merely gone to find a lodging for himself and
for the motor in the village. Yes, I turned him
out of his own house, but I might have done worse.
I meant to do much worse.”

“Yes?” murmured Nan. “Why—­why
didn’t you?”

“Because,” he answered grimly, “I
found that I had only fools to deal with.”

He paused a moment.

“Well, now for your punishment,” he said.
“As you remarked just now, I have you absolutely
at my mercy. How much mercy do you expect—­or
deserve? Answer me—­as my wife.”

But she could not answer him. She only bowed
her head speechlessly against the strong hand that
still held hers.

She could feel his fingers tightening to a grip.
And she knew herself beaten, powerless.

“Listen to me, Anne!” he said suddenly;
and in his voice was something that she had only heard
once before, and that but vaguely. “I am
going to give you a fair chance, in spite of your
behaviour to me. I am willing to believe—­I
do believe—­that, to a certain extent, I
drove you to this course. I also believe that
you and your friend Jerry are nothing but a pair of
irresponsible children. I should like to have
caned him, but I had nothing but a loaded horse-whip
to do it with, so I was obliged to let him off.
Now listen! I am going downstairs and I shall
stay there for exactly half an hour. If between
now and the end of that half-hour you come to me with
any good and sufficient reason for letting you go back
and live apart from me in your father’s house,
I will let you go. You have asked me to remember
that you are my wife. Precisely what you meant
by that you have left me to guess. You will make
that request of yours quite plain to me within the
next half-hour.”

Page 88

He relinquished his hold with the words, and would
have withdrawn his hand, but she made a sharp movement
to stay him.

“Do you—­really—­mean that?”
she asked him, a catch in her voice, her head still
bent.

“I have said it,” he said.

But still with nervous fingers she sought to detain
him.

“What—­what would you consider a good
and sufficient reason?”

The hand she held clenched slowly upon itself.

“If you can convince me,” he said, his
voice very deep and steady, “that to desert
me would be for your happiness, I will let you go for
that.”

“But how can I convince you?” she said,
her face still hidden from him, her hands closed tightly
upon his wrist.

“You will be able to do so,” he said,
“if you know your own mind.”

“And if—­if I fail to satisfy you?”
she faltered.

He was silent. After a moment he deliberately
freed himself, and turned away.

“Those are my terms,” he said. “If
you do not come to me in half an hour I shall conclude
that you leave the decision in my hands—­in
short, that you wish to remain my wife. Think
well, Anne, before you take action in this matter.
I do not seek to persuade you to either course.
Only let me warn you that, whatever your choice, I
shall treat it as final. You must realize that
fully before you choose.”

He was at the head of the stairs as he ended.
Without a pause he began to descend, and she counted
his footsteps with a wildly beating heart till they
ceased in the room below.

CHAPTER XIV

She was alone. In a silence intense she lifted
her head at last, and knew that for half an hour she
was safe from interruption.

Far away over the snow she heard a distant church
clock tolling midnight. It ceased, and in the
silence she thought she heard her stretched nerves
cracking one by one. Soon—­very soon—­she
would have to go down to him and fight the final battle
for her freedom. But she would wait till the
very last minute. She would spend the whole of
the brief time accorded to her in mustering all her
strength. He had swept her pride utterly out of
her reach. But surely that was not her only weapon.

What of her hatred—­that hatred that had
driven her to this mad flight with Jerry? Surely
out of that she could fashion a shield that all his
savagery could not pierce. Moreover, he had given
her his word to abide by her decision whatever it
might be, so long as she could convince him of that
same hatred that had once blazed so fiercely within
her.

But what had happened to it, she wondered? It
had wholly ceased to nerve her for resistance.
How was it? Was she too physically exhausted to
fan it into flame, or had he torn this also from her
to wither underfoot with her dead pride? Surely
not! With all his boasts of mastery, he had not
mastered her yet. She would never submit to him—­never,
never! Crush her, trample her as he would, she
would never yield herself voluntarily to him.
It was only when he began to spare her that she found
herself wavering. Why had he spared her? she
asked herself. Why had he given her that single
chance of escape?

Page 89

Or, stay! Had he, after all, been generous?
Had he but affected generosity that he might the more
completely subjugate her? He had said that she
must convince him that freedom from her chain would
mean happiness to her. And how could she ever
convince him of this? How? How? Would
he ever see himself as she saw him—­a monster
of violence whose very presence appalled her?
The problem was hopeless, hopeless! She knew
that she could never make him understand.

Swiftly the time passed, and with every minute her
resolution grew weaker, her agitation more uncontrollable.
She could not do it. She could not face him with
another challenge. It would kill her to resist
him again as she had resisted him on Jerry’s
behalf. And yet she must do something. For,
if she did not go to him, he would come to her.
The half-hour he had given her was nearly spent.
If she did not make up her mind soon it would be too
late. It might be that already he was repenting
his brief generosity, if generosity it had been.
It might be that at any moment she would hear his
tread upon the stairs.

She started up in a panic, fancying that she heard
it already. But no sound followed her wild alarm,
and she knew that her quivering nerves had tricked
her. Shuddering from head to foot, she stood listening,
debating with herself.

Her time was very short now; only three minutes to
the half-hour—­only two—­only
one!

With a gasp, she gathered together all the little
strength she had left. But she could not descend
those gloomy stairs. She dared not go to him.
She stood halting at the top.

Ah, now he was moving! She heard his step in
the room below, and she was conscious of an instant’s
wild relief that the suspense was past.

Then panic rushed back upon her, blotting out all
else. She saw his shadow on the stairs, and she
cried to him to stop.

“I am coming down to you! Wait for me!
Wait!”

He stepped back, and she stumbled downwards, nearly
falling in her haste. At the last stair she tripped,
recovering herself only by the arm he flung out to
catch her.

“I was coming!” she gasped incoherently.
“I would have come before, but the stairs were
dark—­so dark, and I was frightened!”

“There is nothing to frighten you,” he
said gravely.

“I can’t help it!” she wailed like
a child. “Oh, Piet—­Piet, be kind
to me—­just this once—­if you
can! I—­I’m terrified!”

He put his arm round her.

“Why?” he said.

She could not tell him. But in a vague fashion
his arm comforted her; and that also was beyond explanation.

“You are not angry?” she whispered.

“No,” he said.

“You will be,” she said, shivering, “when
I have told you my decision.”

“What is your decision?” he asked.

She did not answer him; she could not.

He moved, and very gently set her free. There
was a chair by the table from which he had evidently
just risen. He turned to it and sat down, watching
her under his hand.

Page 90

“What is your decision?” he asked again.

She shook her head. Her agony of fear was passing,
but still she could not tell him yet.

He waited silently, his face so shaded by his hand
that she could not read its expression.

The last words were uttered from his breast, though
she never knew how she came to be there. It was
as though a whirlwind had caught her away from the
earth into a sunlit paradise that was all her own—­a
paradise in which fear had no place. And the
chain against which she had chafed so long and bitterly
had turned to links of purest gold.

* * * *
*

The Consolation Prize

“So you don’t want to marry me?”
said Earl Wyverton.

He said it by no means bitterly. There was even
the suggestion of a smile on his clean-shaven face.
He looked down at the girl who stood before him, with
eyes that were faintly quizzical. She was bending
at the moment to cut a tall Madonna lily from a sheaf
that grew close to the path. At his quiet words
she started and the flower fell.

He stooped and picked it up, considered it for a moment,
then slipped it into the basket that was slung on
her arm.

“Don’t be agitated,” he said, gently.
“You needn’t take me seriously—­unless
you wish.”

He looked at her with grave interest. He was
a straight, well-made man; but his kindest friends
could not have called him anything but ugly, and there
were a good many who thought him formidable also.
Nevertheless, there was that about him—­an
honesty and a strength—­which made up to
a very large extent for his lack of other attractions.

“Tell me why,” he said.

“Oh, because you are so far above me,”
the girl said, with an effort. “You must
remember that. You can’t help it. I
have always known that you were not in earnest.”

“Have you?” said Lord Wyverton, smiling
a little. “Have you? You seem to have
rather a high opinion of me, Miss Neville.”

She turned back to her flowers. “There
are certain things,” she said, in a low voice,
“that one can’t help knowing.”

“And one of them is that Lord Wyverton is too
fond of larking to be considered seriously at any
time?” he questioned.

She did not answer. He stood and watched her
speculatively.

“And so you won’t have anything to say
to me?” he said at last. “In fact,
you don’t like me?”

She glanced at him with grey eyes that seemed to plead
for mercy. “Yes, I like you,” she
said, slowly. “But—­”

“Never mind the ‘but,’” said
Wyverton, quietly. “Will you marry me?”

She turned fully round again and faced him. He
saw that she was very pale.

“Do you mean it?” she said. “Do
you?”

He frowned at her, though his eyes remained quizzical
and kindly. “Don’t be frightened,”
he said. “Yes; I am actually in earnest.
I want you.”

She stiffened at the words and grew paler still; but
she said nothing.

It was Wyverton who broke the silence. There
was something about her that made him uneasy.

He gave her a sudden, keen look, and held out his
hand to her. “Never mind the rest of the
world, Phyllis,” he said, very gravely.
“Let them say what they like, dear. If
we want each other, there is no power on earth that
can divide us.”

She drew in her breath sharply as she laid her hand
in his.

“And now,” he said, “give me your
answer. Will you marry me?”

He felt her hand move convulsively in his own.
She was trembling still.

And after a moment, falteringly, through white lips,
she answered him.

“It is—­’Yes.’”

* * * *
*

Page 93

“And you accepted him! Oh, Phyllis!”

The younger sister looked at her with eyes of wide
astonishment, almost of reproach. They were two
of a family of ten; a country clergyman’s family
that had for its support something under three hundred
pounds a year. Phyllis, the eldest girl, worked
for her living as a private secretary and had only
lately returned home for a brief holiday.

Lord Wyverton, who had seen her once or twice in town,
had actually followed her thither to pursue his courtship.
She had not believed herself to be the attraction.
She had persistently refused to believe him to be
in earnest until that afternoon, when the unbelievable
thing had actually happened and he had definitely
asked her to be his wife. Even then, sitting
alone with her sister in the bedroom they shared, she
could scarcely bring herself to realize what had happened
to her.

“Yes,” she said; “I accepted him
of course—­of course. My dear Molly,
how could I refuse?”

Molly made no reply, but her silence was somehow tragic.

“Think of mother,” the elder girl went
on, “and the children. How could I possibly
refuse—­even if I wanted?”

“Yes,” said Molly; “I see.
But I quite thought you were in love with Jim Freeman.”

In the silence that followed this blunt speech she
turned to look searchingly at her sister. Molly
was just twenty, and she did the entire work of the
household with sturdy goodwill. She possessed
beauty that was unusual. They were a good-looking
family, and she was the fairest of them all.
Her eyes were dark and very shrewd, under their straight
black brows; her face was delicate in colouring and
outline; her hair was red-gold and abundant.
Moreover, she was clever in a strictly practical sense.
She enjoyed life in spite of straitened circumstances.
And she possessed a serenity of temperament that no
amount of adversity ever seemed to ruffle.

Having obtained the desired glimpse of her sister’s
face, she returned without comment to the very worn
stocking that she was repairing.

“I had a talk with Jim Freeman the other day,”
she said. “He was driving the old doctor’s
dog-cart and going to see a patient. He offered
me a lift.”

“Oh!” Phyllis’s tone was carefully
devoid of interest. She also took up a stocking
from the pile at her sister’s elbow and began
to work.

“I asked him how he was getting on,” Molly
continued. “He said that Dr. Finsbury was
awfully good to him, and treated him almost like a
son. He asked very particularly after you; and
when I told him you were coming home he said that
he should try and manage to come over and see you.
But he is evidently beginning to be rather important,
and he can’t get away very easily. He asked
a good many questions about you, and wanted to know
if I thought you were happy and well.”

“I see.” Again the absence of interest
in Phyllis’s tone was so marked as to be almost
unnatural.

Page 94

Molly dismissed the subject with a far better executed
air of indifference.

“And you are really going to marry Earl Wyverton,”
she said. “How nice, Phyl! Did he
make love to you?”

There was a distinct pause before Phyllis replied.
“No. There was no need.”

“He didn’t!” ejaculated Molly.

“I didn’t encourage him to,” Phyllis
confessed. “He went away directly after.
He said he should come to-morrow and see dad.”

“I suppose he’s frightfully rich?”
said Molly, reflectively.

“Enormously, I believe.” A deep red
flush rose in Phyllis’s face. She had begun
to tremble again in spite of herself. Molly suddenly
dropped her work and leaned forward.

“Phyl, Phyl,” she said, softly; “shall
I tell you what Jim Freeman said to me that day?
He said that very soon he should be able to support
a wife—­and I knew quite well what he meant.
I told him I was glad—­so glad. Oh,
Phyl, darling, when he comes and asks you to go to
him, what will you say?”

Phyllis looked up with quick protest on her lips.
She wrung her hands together with a despairing gesture.

“Molly, Molly,” she gasped, “don’t
torture me! How can I help it? How can I
help it? I shall have to send him away.”

“Oh, poor darling!” Molly said. “Poor,
poor darling!”

And she gathered her sister into her arms, pressing
her close to her heart with a passionate fondness
of which only a few knew her to be capable. There
was only a year between them, and Molly had always
been the leading spirit, protector and comforter by
turns.

Even as she soothed and hushed Phyllis into calmness
her quick brain was at work upon the situation.
There must be a way of escape somewhere. Of that
she was convinced. There always was a way of escape.
But for the time at least it baffled her. Her
own acquaintance with Wyverton was very slight.
She wished ardently that she knew what manner of man
he was at heart.

Upon one point at least she was firmly determined.
This monstrous sacrifice must not take place, even
were it to ensure the whole family welfare. The
life they lived was desperately difficult, but Phyllis
must not be allowed to ruin her own life’s happiness
and another’s also to ease the burden.

But what a pity it seemed! What a pity!
Why in wonder was Fate so perverse? Molly thought.
Such a brilliant chance offered to herself would have
turned the whole world into a gilded dreamland.
For she was wholly heart-free.

The idea was a fascinating one. It held her fancy
strongly. She began to wonder if he cared very
deeply for her sister, or if mere looks had attracted
him.

She had good looks too, she reflected. And she
was quick to learn, adaptable. The thought rushed
through her mind like a meteor through space.
He might be willing. He might be kind. He
had a look about his eyes—­a quizzical look—­that
certainly suggested possibilities. But dare she
put it to the test? Dare she actually interfere
in the matter?

Page 95

For the first time in all her vigorous young life
Molly found her courage at so low an ebb that she
was by no means sure that she could rely upon it to
carry her through.

She spent the rest of that day in trying to screw
herself up to what she privately termed “the
necessary pitch of impudence.”

* * * *
*

At nine o’clock on the following morning Lord
Wyverton, sitting at breakfast alone in the little
coffee-room of the Red Lion, heard a voice he recognized
speak his name in the passage outside.

“Lord Wyverton,” it said, “is he
down?”

Lord Wyverton rose and went to the door. He met
the landlady just entering with a basket of eggs in
her hand. She dropped him a curtsy.

“It’s Miss Molly from the Vicarage, my
lord,” she said.

Molly herself stood in the background. Behind
the landlady’s broad back she also executed
a village bob.

“I had to come with the eggs. We supply
Mrs. Richards with eggs. And it seemed unneighbourly
to go away without seeing your lordship,” she
said.

She looked at him with wonderful dark eyes that met
his own with unreserved directness. He told himself
as he shook hands that this girl was a great beauty
and would be a magnificent woman some day.

“I am pleased to see you,” he said, with
quiet courtesy. “It was kind of you to
look me up. Will you come into the garden?”

“I haven’t much time to spare,”
said Molly. “It’s my cake morning.
You are coming round to the Vicarage, aren’t
you? Can’t we walk together?”

“Certainly,” he replied at once, “if
you think I shall not be too early a visitor.”

Molly’s lips parted in a little smile.
“We begin our day at six,” she said.

“What energy!” he commented. “I
am only energetic when I am on a holiday.”

“You’re on business now, then?”
queried Molly.

He looked at her keenly as they passed out upon the
sunlit road. “I think you know what my
business is,” he said.

She did not respond. “I’ll take you
through the fields,” she said. “It’s
a short cut. Don’t you want to smoke?”

There was something in her manner that struck him
as not altogether natural. He pondered over it
as he lighted a cigarette.

“They are cutting the grass in the church fields,”
said Molly. “Don’t you hear?”

Through the slumberous summer air came the whir of
the machine. It was June.

“It’s the laziest sound on earth,”
said Wyverton.

Molly turned off the road to a stile. “You
ought to take a holiday,” she said, as she mounted
it.

He vaulted the railing beside it and gave her his
hand. “I’m not altogether a drone,
Miss Neville,” he said.

Molly seated herself on the top bar and surveyed him.
“Of course not,” she said. “You
are here on business, aren’t you?”

Wyverton’s extended hand fell to his side.
“Now what is it you want to say to me?”
he asked her, quietly.

Page 96

Molly’s hands were clasped in her lap.
They did not tremble, but they gripped one another
rather tightly.

“I want to say a good many things,” she
said, after a moment.

Lord Wyverton smiled suddenly. He had meeting
brows, but his smile was reassuring.

“Yes?” he said. “About your
sister?”

“Partly,” said Molly. She put up
an impatient hand and removed her hat. Her hair
shone gloriously in the sunlight that fell chequered
through the overarching trees.

“I want to talk to you seriously, Lord Wyverton,”
she said.

“I am quite serious,” he assured her.

There followed a brief silence. Molly’s
eyes travelled beyond him and rested upon the plodding
horses in the hay-field.

“I have heard,” she said at length, “that
men and women in your position don’t always
marry for love.”

Wyverton’s brows drew together into a single,
hard, uncompromising line. “I suppose there
are such people to be found in every class,”
he said.

Molly’s eyes returned from the hay-field and
met his look steadily. “I like you best
when you don’t frown,” she said. “I
am not trying to insult you.”

His brows relaxed, but he did not smile. “I
am sure of that,” he said, courteously.
“Please continue.”

Molly leaned slightly forward. “I think
one should be honest at all times,” she said,
“at whatever cost. Lord Wyverton, Phyllis
isn’t in love with you at all. She cares
for Jim Freeman, the doctor’s assistant—­an
awfully nice boy; and he cares for her. But, you
see, you are rich, and we are so frightfully poor;
and mother is often ill, chiefly because there isn’t
enough to provide her with what she needs. And
so Phyllis felt it would be almost wicked to refuse
your offer. Perhaps you won’t understand,
but I hope you will try. If it weren’t for
Jim, I would never have told you. As it is—­I
have been wondering—­”

She broke off abruptly and suddenly covered her face
with her two hands in a stillness so tense that the
man beside her marvelled.

He moved close to her. He was rather pale, but
by no means discomposed.

“Yes?” he said. “Go on, please.
I want you to finish.”

There was authority in his voice, but Molly sat in
unbroken silence.

He waited for several moments, then laid a perfectly
steady hand on her knee.

“You have been wondering—­”
he said.

She did not raise her head. As if under compulsion,
she answered him with her face still hidden.

“I have dared to wonder if—­perhaps—­you
would take me—­instead. I—­am
not in love with anybody else, and I never would be.
If you are in love with Phyllis, I won’t go
on. But if it is just beauty you care for, I am
no worse-looking than she is. And I should do
my best to please you.”

The low voice sank. Molly’s habitual self-possession
had wholly deserted her at this critical moment.
She was painfully conscious of the quiet hand on her
knee. It seemed to press upon her with a weight
that was almost intolerable.

Page 97

The silence that followed was terrible to her.
She wondered afterwards how she sat through it.

Then at last he moved and took her by the wrists.
“Will you look at me?” he said.

His voice sent a quiver through her. She had
never felt so desperately scared and ashamed in all
her healthy young life. Yet she yielded to the
insistence of his touch and tone, and met the searching
scrutiny of his eyes with all her courage. He
was not angry, she saw; nor was he contemptuous.
More than that she could not read. She lowered
her eyes and waited. Her pulses throbbed wildly,
but still she kept herself from trembling.

“Is this a definite offer?” he asked at
last.

“Yes,” she answered. Her voice was
very low, but it was steady.

He waited a second, and she felt the mastery of the
eyes she could not meet.

“Forgive me,” he said, then; “but
are you actually in earnest?”

“Yes,” she said again, and marvelled at
her own daring.

His hold tightened upon her wrists. “You
are a very brave girl,” he said.

There was a baffling note in his tone, and she glanced
up involuntarily. To her intense relief she saw
the quizzical, kindly look in his eyes again.

“Will you allow me to say,” he said, “that
I don’t think you were created for a consolation
prize?”

He spoke somewhat grimly, but his tone was not without
humour. Molly sat quite still in his hold.
She had a feeling that she had grossly insulted him,
that she had made it his right to treat her exactly
as he chose.

After a moment he set her quietly free.

“I see you are serious,” he said.
“If you weren’t—­it would be
intolerable. But do you actually expect me to
take you at your word?”

She did not hesitate. “I wish you to,”
she said.

“You think you would be happy with me?”
he pursued. “You know, I am called eccentric
by a good many.”

“You are eccentric,” said Molly, “or
you wouldn’t dream of marrying one of us.
As to being happy, it isn’t my nature to be miserable.
I don’t want to be a countess, but I do want
to help my people. That in itself would make
me happy.”

“Thank you for telling me the truth,”
Wyverton said, gravely. “I believe I have
suspected some of it from the first. And now listen.
I asked your sister to marry me—­because
I wanted her. But I will spoil no woman’s
life. I will take nothing that does not belong
to me. I shall set her free.”

He paused. Molly was looking at him expectantly.
His face softened a little under her eyes.

“As for you,” he said, “I don’t
think you quite realize what you have offered me—­how
much of yourself. It is no little thing, Molly.
It is all you have. A woman should not part with
that lightly. Still, since you have offered it
to me, I cannot and do not throw it aside. If
you are of the same mind in six months from now, I
shall take you at your word. But you ought to
marry for love, child—­you ought to marry
for love.”

Page 98

He held out his hand to her abruptly, and Molly, with
a burning face, gave him both her own.

“I can’t think how I did it,” she
said, in a low voice. “But I—­I
am not sorry.”

“Thank you,” said Lord Wyverton, and he
stooped with an odd little smile, and kissed first
one and then the other of the hands he held.

* * * *
*

No one, save Phyllis, knew of the contract made on
that golden morning in June on the edge of the flowering
meadows; and even to Phyllis only the bare outlines
of the interview were vouchsafed.

That she was free, and that Lord Wyverton felt no
bitterness over his disappointment, he himself assured
her. He uttered no word of reproach. He
did not so much as hint that she had given him cause
for complaint. He was absolutely composed, even
friendly.

He barely mentioned her sister’s interference
in the matter, and he said nothing whatsoever as to
her singular method of dealing with the situation.
It was Molly who briefly imparted this action of hers,
and her manner of so doing did not invite criticism.

Thereafter she went back to her multitudinous duties
without an apparent second thought, shouldering her
burden with her usual serenity; and no one imagined
for a moment what tumultuous hopes and doubts underlay
her calm exterior.

Lord Wyverton left the place, and the general aspect
of things returned to their usual placidity.

The announcement of the engagement of the vicar’s
eldest daughter to Jim Freeman, the doctor’s
assistant in the neighbouring town, created a small
stir among the gossips. It was generally felt
that, good fellow as young Freeman undoubtedly was,
pretty Phyllis Neville might have done far better
for herself. A rumour even found credence in some
quarters that she had actually refused the wealthy
aristocrat for Jim Freeman’s sake, but there
were not many who held this belief. It implied
a foolishness too sublime.

Discussion died down after Phyllis’s return
to her work. It was understood that her marriage
was to take place in the winter. Molly’s
hands were, in consequence, very full, and she had
obviously no time to talk of her sister’s choice.
There was only one visitor who ever called at the
Vicarage in anything approaching to state. Her
visits usually occurred about twice a year, and possessed
something of the nature of a Royal favour. This
was Lady Caryl, the Lady of the Manor, in whose gift
the living lay.

This lady had always shown a marked preference for
the vicar’s second daughter.

“Mary Neville,” she would remark to her
friends, “is severely handicapped by circumstance,
but she will make her mark in spite of it. Her
beauty is extraordinary, and I cannot believe that
Providence has destined her for a farmer’s wife.”

It was on a foggy afternoon at the end of November
that Lady Caryl’s carriage turned in at the
Vicarage gates for the second state call of the year.

Page 99

Molly received the visitor alone. Her mother
was upstairs with a bronchial attack.

Lady Caryl, handsome, elderly, and aristocratic, entered
the shabby drawing-room with her most gracious air.
She sat and talked for a while upon various casual
subjects. Molly poured out the tea and responded
with her usual cheery directness. Lady Caryl
did not awe her. Her father was wont to remark
that Molly was impudent as a robin and brave as a lion.

After a slight pause in the conversation Lady Caryl
turned from parish affairs with an abruptness somewhat
characteristic of her, but by no means impetuous.

“Did you ever chance to meet Earl Wyverton,
my dear Mary?” she inquired. “He
spent a few days here in the summer.”

“Yes,” said Molly. “He came
to see us several times.”

The beautiful colour rose slightly as she replied,
but she looked straight at her questioner with a directness
almost boyish.

“Ah!” said Lady Caryl. “I was
away from the Manor at the time, or I should have
asked him to stay there. I have always liked him.”

“We like him too,” said Molly, simply.

“He is a gentleman,” rejoined Lady Caryl,
with emphasis. “And that makes his misfortune
the more regrettable.”

“Misfortune!” echoed Molly.

She started a little as she uttered the word—­so
little that none but a very keen observer would have
noticed it.

“Ah!” said Lady Caryl. “You
have not heard, I see. I suppose you would not
hear. But it has been the talk of the town.
They say he has lost practically every penny he possessed
over some gigantic American speculation, and that
to keep his head above water he will have to sell
or let every inch of land he owns. It is particularly
to be regretted, as he has always taken his responsibilities
seriously. Indeed, there are many who regard
his principles as eccentrically fastidious. I
am not of the number, my dear Mary. Like you,
I have a high esteem for him, and he has my most heartfelt
sympathy.”

She ceased to speak, and there was a little pause.

“How dreadful!” Molly said then.
“It must be far worse to lose a lot of money
than to be poor from the beginning.”

The flush had quite passed from her face. She
even looked slightly pale.

Lady Caryl laid down her cup and rose. “That
would be so, no doubt,” she said. “I
think I shall try to persuade him to come to us at
the end of the year. And your sister is to be
married in January? It will be quite an event
for you all. I am sure you are very busy—­even
more so than usual, my dear Mary.”

She made her stately adieu and swept away.

After her departure Molly bore the teacups to the
kitchen and washed them with less than her usual cheery
rapidity. And when the day’s work was done
she sat for a long while in her icy bedroom, with the
moonlight flooding all about her, thinking, thinking
deeply.

Page 100

* * * *
*

It was the eve of Phyllis’s wedding-day, and
Molly was hard at work in the kitchen. The children
were all at home, but she had resolutely turned every
one out of this, her own particular domain, that she
might complete her gigantic task of preparation undisturbed.
The whole household were in a state of seething excitement.
There were guests in the house as well, and every
room but the kitchen seemed crowded to its utmost
capacity. Molly was busier than she had ever been
in her life, and the whirl of work had nearly swept
away even her serenity. She was very tired, too,
though she was scarcely conscious of it. Her hands
went from one task to another with almost mechanical
skill.

She was bending over the stove, stirring a delicacy
that required her minute attention when there came
a knock on the kitchen door.

She did not even turn her head as she responded to
it. “Go away!” she called. “I
can’t talk to anyone.”

There was a pause—­a speculative pause—­during
which Molly bent lower over her saucepan and concluded
that the intruder had departed.

Then she became suddenly aware that the door had opened
quietly and someone had entered. She could not
turn her head at the moment.

“Oh, do go away!” she said. “I
haven’t a second to spare; and if this goes
wrong I shall be hours longer.”

The kitchen door closed promptly and obligingly, and
Molly, with a little sigh of relief, concentrated
her full attention once more upon the matter in hand.

The last critical phase of the operation arrived,
and she lifted the saucepan from the fire and turned
round with it to the table.

In that instant she saw that which so disturbed her
equanimity that she nearly dropped saucepan and contents
upon the kitchen floor.

Earl Wyverton was standing with his back against the
door, watching her with eyes that shone quizzically
under the meeting brows.

He came forward instantly, and actually took the saucepan
out of her hands.

“Let me,” he said.

Molly let him, being for the moment powerless to do
otherwise.

“Now,” he said, “what does one do—­pour
it into this glass thing? I see. Don’t
watch me, please; I’m nervous.”

Molly uttered a curious little laugh that was not
wholly steady.

“How did you come here?” she said.

He did not answer her till he had safely accomplished
what he had undertaken. Then he set down the
saucepan and looked at her.

“I am staying with Lady Caryl,” he told
her gravely. “I arrived this afternoon.
And I have come here to present a humble offering to
your sister, and to make a suggestion equally humble
to you. I arrived here in this room by means
of a process called bribery and corruption. But
if you are too busy to listen to me, I will wait.”

“I can listen,” Molly said.

He had not even shaken hands with her, and she felt
strangely uncertain of herself. She was even
conscious of a childish desire to run away.

Page 101

He took her at her word at once. “Thank
you,” he said. “Now, do you remember
a certain conversation that took place between us six
months ago?”

“I remember,” she said.

An odd sense of powerlessness had taken possession
of her, and she knew it had become visible to him,
for she saw his face alter.

She understood the allusion and laughed rather faintly.
“I’m not afraid of you, Lord Wyverton,”
she said.

He smiled at her. “Thank you,” he
said. “That’s kind. I’m
coming to the point. There are just two questions
I have to ask you, and I’ve done. First,
have they told you that I’m a ruined man?”

Molly’s face became troubled. “Yes,”
she said. “Lady Caryl told me. I was
very sorry—­for you.”

She uttered the last two words with a conscious effort.
He was mastering her in some subtle fashion, drawing
her by some means irresistible. She felt almost
as if some occult force were at work upon her.
He did not thank her for her sympathy. Without
comment he passed on to his second question.

“And are you still disposed to be generous?”
he asked her, with a directness that surpassed her
own. “Is your offer—­that splendid
offer of yours—­still open? Or have
you changed your mind? You mustn’t pity
me overmuch. I have enough to live on—­enough
for two”—­he smiled again that pleasant,
sudden smile of his—­“if you will do
the cooking and polish the front-door knob.”

“What will you do?” demanded Molly, with
a new-found independence of tone that his light manner
made possible.

“I shall clean the boots,” he answered,
promptly, “or swab the floors, or, it may be”—­he
bent slightly towards her, and she saw a new light
in his eyes as he ended—­“it may be,
stand by my wife to lift the saucepan off the fire,
or do all her other little jobs when she is tired.”

Again, and more strongly, she felt that he was drawing
her, and she knew that she was going—­going
into deep waters in which his hand alone could hold
her up. She stood before him silently. Her
heart was beating very fast. The surging of the
deep sea was in her ears. It almost frightened
her, though she knew she had no cause to fear.

And then, suddenly, his hands were upon her shoulders
and his eyes were closely searching her face.

“I offer you myself, Molly,” he said,
and there was ringing passion in his voice, though
he controlled it. “I loved you from the
moment you offered to marry me. Is not that enough?”

Yes; it was enough. The mastery of it rolled
in upon her in a full flood-tide that no power of
reasoning could withstand. She drew one long,
gasping breath—­and yielded. The splendour
of that moment was greater than anything she had ever
known. Its intensity was almost too vivid to
be borne.

Page 102

She stretched up her arms to him with a little sob
of pure and glad surrender. There was no hiding
what was in her heart. She revealed it to him
without words, but fully, gloriously, convincingly,
as she yielded her lips to his. And she forgot
that she had desired to marry him for his money.
She forgot that the family clothes were threadbare
and the family cares almost impossible to cope with.
She knew only that better thing which is greater than
poverty or pain or death itself. And, knowing
it, she possessed more than the whole world, and found
it enough.

Late that night, when at last Molly lay down to rest
with the morrow’s bride by her side, there came
the final revelation of that amazing day. Neither
she nor Wyverton had spoken a word to any of that which
was between them. It was not their hour; or,
rather, the time had not arrived for others to share
in it.

But as the two girls clasped one another on that last
night of companionship Phyllis presently spoke his
name.

“I actually haven’t told you what Lord
Wyverton did, Moll,” she said. “You
would never guess. It was so unexpected, so overwhelming.
You know he came to tea. You were busy and didn’t
see him. Jim was there, too. He came straight
up to me and said the kindest things to us both.
We were standing away from the rest. And he put
an envelope into my hand and asked me, with his funny
smile, to accept it for an old friend’s sake.
He disappeared mysteriously directly after. And—­and—­Molly,
it was a cheque for a thousand pounds.”

“Good gracious!” said Molly, sharply.

“Wasn’t it simply amazing?” Phyllis
continued. “It nearly took my breath away.
And then Lady Caryl arrived, and I showed it to her.
And she said that the story of his ruin was false,
that she thought he himself had invented it for a
special reason that had ceased to exist. And she
said that she thought he was richer now than he had
ever been before. Why, Molly, Molly—­what
has happened? What is it?”

Molly had suddenly sprung upright in bed. The
moonlight was shining on her beautiful face, and she
was smiling tremulously, while her eyes were wet with
tears.

She reached out both her arms with a gesture that
was full of an infinite tenderness.

“Yes,” she said, “yes, I see.”
And her glad voice rang and quivered on that note
which Love alone can strike. “It’s
true, darling. It’s true. He is richer
now than he ever was before, and I—­I have
found endless riches too. For I love him—­I
love him—­I love him! And—­he
knows it!”

“Molly!” exclaimed her sister in amazement.

Molly did not turn. She was staring into the
moonlight with eyes that saw.

“And nothing else counts in all the world,”
she said. “He knows that too, as we all
know it—­we all know it—­at the
bottom of our hearts.”

And with that she laughed—­the soft, sweet
laugh of Love triumphant—­and lay back again
by her sister’s side.

Page 103

* * * *
*

Her Freedom

“We have been requested to announce that the
marriage arranged between Viscount Merrivale and Miss
Hilary St. Orme will not take place.”

Viscount Merrivale was eating his breakfast when he
chanced upon this announcement. He was late that
morning, and, contrary to custom, was skimming through
the paper at the same time. But the paragraph
brought both occupations to an abrupt standstill.
He stared at the sheet for a few moments as if he
thought it was bewitched. His brown face reddened,
and he looked as if he were about to say something.
Then he pushed the paper aside with a contemptuous
movement and drank his coffee.

His servant, appearing in answer to the bell a few
minutes later, looked at him with furtive curiosity.
He had already seen the announcement, being in the
habit of studying society items before placing the
paper on the breakfast-table. But Merrivale’s
clean-shaven face was free from perturbation, and
the man was puzzled.

“Reynolds,” Merrivale said, “I shall
go out of town this afternoon. Have the motor
ready at four!”

“Very good, my lord.” Reynolds glanced
at the table and noted with some satisfaction that
his master had only eaten one egg.

“Yes, I have finished,” Merrivale said,
taking up the paper. “If Mr. Culver calls,
ask him to be good enough to wait for me. And—­that’s
all,” he ended abruptly as he reached the door.

“As cool as a cucumber!” murmured Reynolds,
as he began to clear the table. “I shouldn’t
wonder but what he stuck the notice in hisself.”

Merrivale, still with the morning paper in his hand,
strolled easily down to his club and collected a few
letters. He then sauntered into the smoking-room,
where a knot of men, busily conversing in undertones,
gave him awkward greeting.

Merrivale lighted a cigar and sat down deliberately
to study his paper.

Nearly an hour later he rose, nodded to several members,
who glanced up at him expectantly, and serenely took
his departure.

A general buzz of discussion followed.

“He doesn’t look exactly heart-broken,”
one man observed.

“Hearts grow tough in the West,” remarked
another. “He has probably done the breaking-off
himself. Jack Merrivale, late of California, isn’t
the sort of chap to stand much trifling.”

A young man with quizzical eyes broke in with a laugh.

“Ask Mr. Cosmo Fletcher! He is really well
up on that subject.”

“Also Mr. Richard Culver, apparently,”
returned the first speaker.

Culver grinned and bowed.

“Certainly, sir,” he said. “But—­luckily
for himself—­he has never qualified for
a leathering from Jack Merrivale, late of California.
I don’t believe myself that he did do the breaking-off.
As they haven’t met more than a dozen times,
it can’t have gone very deep with him. And,
anyhow, I am certain the girl never cared twopence
for anything except his title, the imp. She’s
my cousin, you know, so I can call her what I like—­always
have.”

Page 104

“I shouldn’t abuse the privilege in Merrivale’s
presence if I were you,” remarked the man who
had expressed the opinion that Merrivale was not one
to stand much trifling.

* * * *
*

“Well, but wasn’t it unreasonable?”
said Hilary St. Orme, with hands clasped daintily
behind her dark head. “Who could stand such
tyranny as that? And surely it’s much better
to find out before than after. I hate masterful
men, Sybil. I am quite sure I could never have
been happy with him.”

The girl’s young step-mother looked across at
the pretty, mutinous face and sighed.

“It wasn’t a nice way of telling him so,
I’m afraid, dear,” she said. “Your
father is very vexed.”

“But it was beautifully conclusive, wasn’t
it?” laughed Hilary. “As to the poor
old pater, he won’t keep it up for ever, bless
his simple heart, that did want its daughter to be
a viscountess. So while the fit lasts I propose
to judiciously absent my erring self. It’s
a nuisance to have to miss all the fun this season;
but with the pater in the sulks it wouldn’t
be worth it. So I’m off to-morrow to join
Bertie and the house-boat at Riverton. As Dick
has taken a bungalow close by, we shall be quite a
happy family party. They will be happy; I shall
be happy; and you—­positively, darling,
you won’t have a care left in the world.
If it weren’t for your matrimonial bonds, I
should quite envy you.”

“I don’t think you ought to go down to
Riverton without someone responsible to look after
you,” objected Mrs. St. Orme dubiously.

“My dear little mother, what a notion!”
cried her step-daughter with a merry laugh. “Who
ever dreamt of the proprieties on the river? Why,
I spent a whole fortnight on the house-boat with only
Bertie and the Badger that time the poor old pater
and I fell out over—­what was it? Well,
it doesn’t matter. Anyhow, I did.
And no one a bit the worse. Bertie is equal to
a dozen duennas, as everyone knows.”

“Don’t you really care, I wonder?”
said Mrs. St. Orme, with wondering eyes on the animated
face.

“Why should I, dear?” laughed the girl,
dropping upon a hassock at her side. “I
am my own mistress. I have a little money, and—­considering
I am only twenty-four—­quite a lot of wisdom.
As to being Viscountess Merrivale, I will say it fascinated
me a little—­just at first, you know.
And the poor old pater was so respectful I couldn’t
help enjoying myself. But the gilt soon wore
off the gingerbread, and I really couldn’t enjoy
what was left. I said to myself, ’My dear,
that man has the makings of a hectoring bully.
You must cut yourself loose at once if you don’t
want to develop into that most miserable of all creatures,
a down-trodden wife.’ So after our little
tiff of the day before yesterday I sent the notice
off forthwith. And—­you observe—­it
has taken effect. The tyrant hasn’t been
near.”

“You really mean to say the engagement wasn’t
actually broken off before you sent it?” said
Mrs. St. Orme, looking shocked.

Page 105

“It didn’t occur to either of us,”
said Hilary, looking down with a smile at the corners
of her mouth. “He chose to take exception
to my being seen riding in the park with Mr. Fletcher.
And I took exception to his interference. Not
that I like Mr. Fletcher, for I don’t. But
I had to assert my right to choose my own friends.
He disputed it. And then we parted. No one
is going to interfere with my freedom.”

“You were never truly in love with him, then?”
said Mrs. St. Orme, regret and relief struggling in
her voice.

Hilary looked up with clear eyes.

“Oh, never, darling!” she said tranquilly.
“Nor he with me. I don’t know what
it means; do you? You can’t—­surely—­be
in love with the poor old pater?”

She laughed at the idea and idly took up a paper lying
at hand. Half a minute later she uttered a sharp
cry and looked up with flaming cheeks.

She thrust the paper upon her step-mother’s
knee and pointed with a finger that shook uncontrollably
at a brief announcement in the society column.

“We are requested to state that the announcement
in yesterday’s issue that the marriage arranged
between Viscount Merrivale and Miss Hilary St. Orme
would not take place was erroneous. The marriage
will take place, as previously announced, towards
the end of the season.”

* * * *
*

“What sublime assurance!” exclaimed Bertie
St. Orme, lying on his back in the luxurious punt
which his sister was leisurely impelling up stream,
and laughing up at her flushed face. “This
viscount of yours seems to have plenty of decision
of character, whatever else he may be lacking in.”

Bertie St. Orme was a cripple, and spent every summer
regularly upon the river with his old manservant,
nicknamed “the Badger.”

“But he means to keep you to your word, eh?”
her brother persisted. “How will you get
out of it?”

Hilary’s face flushed more deeply, and she bit
her lip.

“There won’t be any getting out of it.
Don’t be silly! I am free.”

“The end of the season!” teased Bertie.
“That allows you—­let’s see—­four,
five, six more weeks of freedom.”

“Be quiet, if you don’t want a drenching!”
warned Hilary. “Besides,” she added,
with inconsequent optimism, “anything may happen
before then. Why, I may even be married to a
man I really like.”

“Great Scotland, so you may!” chuckled
her brother. “There’s the wild man
that Dick has brought down here to tame before launching
at society. He’s a great beast like a brown
bear. He wouldn’t be my taste, but that’s
a detail.”

“I hate fashionable men!” declared Hilary,
with scarlet face. “I’d rather marry
a red Indian than one of these inane men about town.”

Page 106

“Ho! ho!” laughed Bertie. “Then
Dick’s wild man will be quite to your taste.
As soon as he leaves off worrying mutton-bones with
his fingers and teeth, we’ll ask Dick to bring
him to dine.”

“You’re perfectly disgusting!” said
Hilary, digging her punt-pole into the bed of the
river with a vicious plunge. “If you don’t
mean to behave yourself, I won’t stay with you.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” returned Bertie with
brotherly assurance. “You wouldn’t
miss Dick’s aborigine for anything—­and
I don’t blame you, for he’s worth seeing.
Dick assures me that he is quite harmless, or I don’t
know that I should care to venture my scalp at such
close quarters.”

“You’re positively ridiculous to-day,”
Hilary declared.

* * * *
*

A perfect summer morning, a rippling blue river that
shone like glass where the willows dipped and trailed,
and a girl who sang a murmurous little song to herself
as she slid down the bank into the laughing stream.

Ah, it was heavenly! The sun-flecks on the water
danced and swam all about her. The trees whispered
to one another above her floating form. The roses
on the garden balustrade of Dick Culver’s bungalow
nodded as though welcoming a friend. She turned
over and struck out vigorously, swimming up-stream.
It was June, and the whole world was awake and singing.

“It’s better than the entire London season
put together,” she murmured to herself, as she
presently came drifting back.

A whiff of tobacco-smoke interrupted her soliloquy.
She shook back her wet hair and stood up waist-deep
in the clear, green water.

“What ho, Dick!” she called gaily.
“I can’t see you, but I know you’re
there. Come down and have a swim, you lazy boy!”

There followed a pause. Then a diffident voice
with an unmistakably foreign accent made reply.

“Were you speaking to me?”

Glancing up in the direction of the voice, Hilary
discovered a stranger seated against the trunk of
a willow on the high bank above her. She started
and coloured. She had forgotten Dick’s wild
man. She described him later as the brownest
man she had ever seen. His face was brown, the
lower part of it covered with a thick growth of brown
beard. His eyes were brown, surmounted by very
bushy eyebrows. His hair was brown. His
hands were brown. His clothes were brown, and
he was smoking what looked like a brown clay pipe.

Hilary regained her self-possession almost at once.
The diffidence of the voice gave her assurance.

The man on the bank smiled an affirmative, and Hilary
remarked to herself that he had splendid teeth.

“I am Dick’s friend,” he said, speaking
slowly, as if learning the lesson from her. There
was a slight subdued twang in his utterance which
attracted Hilary immensely.

Page 107

She nodded encouragingly to him.

“I am Dick’s cousin,” she said.
“He will tell you all about me if you ask him.”

“I will certainly ask,” the stranger said
in his soft, foreign drawl.

“Don’t forget!” called Hilary, as
she splashed back into deep water. “And
tell him to bring you to dine on our house-boat at
eight to-night! Bertie and I will be delighted
to see you. We were meaning to send a formal
invitation. But no one stands on ceremony on the
river—­or in it either,” she laughed
to herself as she swam away with swift, even strokes.

“I shouldn’t have asked him in that way,”
she explained to her brother afterwards, “if
he hadn’t been rather shy. One must be nice
to foreigners, and dear Dickie’s society undiluted
would bore me to extinction.”

“I don’t think we had better give him
a knife at dinner,” remarked Bertie. “I
shouldn’t like you to be scalped, darling.
It would ruin your prospects. I suppose my only
course would be to insist upon his marrying you forthwith.”

“Bertie, you’re a beast!” said his
sister tersely.

* * * *
*

“We have taken you at your word, you see,”
sang out Dick Culver from his punt. “I
hope you haven’t thought better of it by any
chance, for my friend has been able to think of nothing
else all day.”

A slim white figure danced eagerly out of the tiny
dining-saloon of the house-boat.

“Come on board!” she cried hospitably.
“The Badger will see to your punt. I am
glad you’re not late.”

She held out her hand to the new-comer with a pretty
lack of ceremony. He looked more than ever like
a backwoodsman, but it was quite evident that he was
pleased with his surroundings. He shook hands
with her almost reverently, and smiled in a quiet,
well-satisfied way. But, having nothing to say,
he did not vex himself to put it into words—­a
trait which strongly appealed to Hilary.

“His name,” said Dick Culver, laughing
at his cousin over the big man’s shoulder, “is
Jacques. He has another, but, as nobody ever uses
it, it isn’t to the point, and I never was good
at pronunciation. He is a French Canadian, with
a dash of Yankee thrown in. He is of a peaceable
disposition except when roused, when all his friends
find it advisable to give him a wide berth. He—­”

“That’ll do, my dear fellow,” softly
interposed the stranger, with a gentle lift of the
elbow in Culver’s direction. “Leave
Miss St. Orme to find out the rest for herself!
I hope she is not easily alarmed.”

“Not at all, I assure you,” said Hilary.
“Never mind Dick! No one does. Come
inside!”

She led the way with light feet. Her exile from
London during the season promised to be less deadly
than she had anticipated. Unmistakably she liked
Dick’s wild man.

They found Bertie in the little roselit saloon, and
as he welcomed the stranger Culver drew Hilary aside.
There was much mystery on his comical face.

Page 108

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he murmured;
“this fellow is a great chief in his own country,
but he doesn’t want anyone to know it. He’s
coming here to learn a little of our ways, and he’s
particularly interested in English women, so be nice
to him.”

“I thought you said he was a French Canadian,”
said Hilary.

“That’s what he wants to appear,”
said Culver. “And, anyhow, he had a Yankee
mother. I know that for a fact. He’s
quite civilised, you know. You needn’t
be afraid of him.”

“Afraid!” exclaimed Hilary.

Turning, she found the new-comer looking at her with
brown eyes that were soft under the bushy brows.

“He can’t be a red man,” she said
to herself. “He hasn’t got the cheek-bones.”

Leaving Dick to amuse himself, she smiled upon her
other guest with winning graciousness and forthwith
began the dainty task of initiating him into the ways
of English women.

She was relieved to find that, notwithstanding his
hairy appearance, he was, as Dick had assured her,
quite civilised. As the meal proceeded she suddenly
conceived an interest in Canada and the States, which
had never before possessed her. She questioned
him with growing eagerness, and he replied with a
smile and always that half-reverent, half-shy courtliness
that had first attracted her. Undoubtedly he was
a pleasant companion. He clothed the information
for which she asked in careful and picturesque language.
He was ready at any moment to render any service, however
slight, but his attentions were so unobtrusive that
Hilary could not but accept them with pleasure.
She maintained her pretty graciousness throughout
dinner, anxious to set him at his ease.

“Englishmen are not half so nice,” she
said to herself, as she rose from the table.
And she thought of the stubborn Viscount Merrivale
as she said it.

There was a friendly regret at her departure written
in the man’s eyes as he opened the door for
her, and with a sudden girlish impulse she paused.

“Why don’t you come and smoke your cigar
in the punt?” she said.

He glanced irresolutely over his shoulder at the other
two men who were discussing some political problem
with much absorption.

With a curious desire to have her way with him, the
girl waited with a little laugh.

“Come!” she said softly. “You
can’t be interested in British politics.”

He looked at her with his friendly, silent smile,
and followed her out.

* * * *
*

“Isn’t it heavenly?” breathed Hilary,
as she lay back on the velvet cushions and watched
the man’s strong figure bend to the punt-pole.

“I think it is Heaven, Miss St. Orme,”
he answered in a hushed voice.

The sun had scarcely set in a cloudless shimmer of
rose, and, sailing up from the east, a full moon cast
a rippling, silvery pathway upon the mysterious water.

The girl drew a long sigh of satisfaction, then laughed
a little.

Page 109

“What a shame to make you work after dinner!”
she said.

She saw his smile in the moonlight.

“Do you call this work?” She seemed to
hear a faint ring of amusement in the slowly-uttered
question.

“You are very strong,” she said almost
involuntarily.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly, and there suddenly
ran a curious thrill through her—­a feeling
that she and he had once been kindred spirits together
in another world.

She felt as if their intimacy had advanced by strides
when she spoke again, and the sensation was one of
a strange, quivering delight which the perfection
of the June night seemed to wholly justify. Anyhow,
it was not a moment for probing her inner self with
searching questions. She turned a little and
suffered her fingers to trail through the moonlit
water.

“I wonder if you would tell me something?”
she said almost diffidently.

“If it lies in my power,” he answered
courteously.

“You may think it rude,” she suggested,
with a most unusual attack of timidity. It had
been her habit all her life to command rather than
to request. But somehow the very courtesy with
which this man treated her made her uncertain of herself.

“I shall not think anything so—­impossible,”
he assured her gently, and again she saw his smile.

“Well,” she said, looking up at him intently,
“will you—­please—­let me
into your secret? I promise I won’t tell.
But do tell me who you are!”

There followed a silence, during which the man leaned
a little on his pole, gazing downwards while he kept
the punt motionless. The water babbled round
them with a tinkling murmur that was like the laughter
of fairy voices. They had passed beyond the region
of house-boats and bungalows, and the night was very
still.

At last the man spoke, and the girl gave a queer little
motion of relief.

“I should like to tell you everything there
is to know about me,” he said in his careful,
foreign English. “But—­will you
forgive me?—­I do not feel myself able to
do so—­yet. Some day I will answer your
question gladly—­I hope some day soon—­if
you are kind enough to continue to extend to me your
interest and your friendship.”

He looked down into Hilary’s uplifted face with
a queer wistfulness that struck unexpectedly straight
to her heart. She felt suddenly that this man’s
past contained something of loss and disappointment
of which he could not lightly speak to a mere casual
acquaintance.

With the quickness of impulse characteristic of her,
she smiled sympathetic comprehension.

“And you won’t even tell me your name?”
she said.

He bent again to the pole, and she saw his teeth shine
in the moonlight. “I think my friend told
you one of my names,” he said.

“Oh, it’s much too commonplace,”
she protested. “Quite half the men I know
are called Jack.”

And then for the first time she heard him laugh—­a
low, exultant laugh that sent the blood in a sudden
rush to her cheeks.

Page 110

“Shall we go back now?” she suggested,
turning her face away.

He obeyed her instantly, and the punt began to glide
back through the ripples.

No further word passed between them till, as they
neared the house-boat, the high, keen notes of a flute
floated out upon the tender silence.

Hilary glanced up sharply, the moonlight on her face,
and saw a group of men in a punt moored under the
shadowy bank. One of them raised his hand and
sent a ringing salutation across the water.

Hilary nodded and turned aside. There was annoyance
on her face—­the annoyance of one suddenly
awakened from a dream of complete enjoyment.

Her companion asked no question. He was bending
vigorously to his work. But she seemed to consider
some explanation to be due to him.

“That,” she said, “is a man I know
slightly. His name is Cosmo Fletcher.”

“A friend?” asked the big man.

Hilary coloured a little.

“Well,” she said half-reluctantly, “I
suppose one would call him that.”

* * * *
*

“I believe you’re in love with Culver’s
half-breed American,” said Cosmo Fletcher brutally,
nearly three weeks later. He had just been rejected
finally and emphatically by the girl who faced him
in the stern of his skiff.

She was very pale, but her eyes were full of resolution
as they met his.

“That,” she said, “is no business
of yours. Please take me back!”

He looked as if he would have liked to refuse, but
her steadfast eyes compelled him. Sullenly he
turned the boat.

Dead silence reigned between them till, as they rounded
a bend in the river and came within sight of the house-boat,
Fletcher, glancing over his shoulder, caught sight
of a big figure seated on the deck.

Then he turned to the girl with a sneer:

“It might interest Jack Merrivale to hear of
this pretty little romance of yours,” he said.

The colour flamed in her cheeks.

“Tell him then!” she said defiantly.

“I think I must,” said Fletcher.
“He and I are such old friends.”

He waited for her to tell him that it was on his account
that they had quarrelled, but she would not so far
gratify him, maintaining a stubborn silence till they
drew alongside. Jacques rose to hand her on board.

“I hope you have enjoyed your row,” he
said courteously.

“Thanks!” she returned briefly, avoiding
his eyes. “I think it is too hot to enjoy
anything to-day.”

The tea-kettle was singing merrily on the dainty brass
spirit-lamp, and she sat down at the table forthwith.

Jacques stood beside her, silent and friendly as a
tame mastiff. Perhaps his presence after what
had just passed between herself and Fletcher made
her nervous, or perhaps her thoughts were elsewhere
and she forgot to be cautious. Whatever the cause,
she took up the kettle carelessly and knocked it against
the spirit-lamp with some force.

Page 111

Jacques swooped forward and steadied it before it
could overturn; but the dodging flame caught the girl’s
muslin sleeve and set it ablaze in an instant.
She uttered a cry and started up with a wild idea of
flinging herself into the river, but Jacques was too
quick for her. He turned and seized the burning
fabric in his great hands, ripping it away from her
arm and crushing out the flames with unflinching strength.

“Don’t be frightened!” he said.
“It’s all right. I’ve got it
out.”

“And what of you?” she gasped, eyes of
horror on his blackened hands.

He smiled at her reassuringly.

“Well done, man!” cried Dick Culver.
“It was like you to save her life while we were
thinking about it. Are you hurt, Hilary?”

“No,” she said, with trembling lips.
“But—­but—­”

She broke off on the verge of tears, and Dick considerately
transferred his attention to his friend.

“Let’s see the damage, old fellow!”

“It is nothing,” said Jacques, still faintly
smiling. “Yes, you may see it if you like,
if only to prove that I speak the truth.”

There was an elaborate tattoo of the American flag
on the extended wrist, to which he pointed with a
furious laugh.

“Deny it if you can!” he said.

Jacques looked at him gravely, without the smallest
sign of agitation.

“You certainly have good reason to know that
hand rather well,” he said after a moment, speaking
with extreme deliberation, “considering that
it has had the privilege of giving you the finest
thrashing of your life.”

Fletcher turned purple. He looked as if he were
going to strike the speaker on the mouth. But
before he could raise his hand Hilary suddenly forced
herself between them.

“Mr. Fletcher,” she said, her voice quivering
with anger, “go instantly! There is your
boat. And never come near us again!”

Fletcher fell back a step, but he was too furious
to obey such a command.

“Do you think I am going to leave that confounded
humbug to have it all his own way?” he snarled.
“I tell you—­”

But here Culver intervened.

“You shut up!” he ordered sternly.
“We’ve had too much of you already.
You had better go.”

“No!” broke in Hilary breathlessly.
“No, no! I won’t listen! I tell
you I won’t!” facing the big man almost
fiercely. “Tell me yourself if you like!”

He looked at her closely, still with that odd half-smile
upon his face.

Page 112

Then, before them all, he took her hand, and, bending,
held it to his lips.

“Thank you, Hilary!” he said very softly.

In the privacy of her own cabin Hilary removed her
tatters and cooled her tingling cheeks. She and
her brother were engaged to dine at Dick’s bungalow
that night, but an overwhelming shyness possessed her,
and at the last moment she persuaded Bertie to go
alone. It was plain that for some reason Bertie
was hugely amused, and she thought it rather heartless
of him.

She dined alone on the house-boat with her face to
the river. Her fright had made her somewhat nervous,
and she was inclined to start at every sound.
When the meal was over she went up to her favourite
retreat on the upper deck. A golden twilight
still lingered in the air, and the river was mysteriously
calm. But the girl’s heart was full of a
heavy restlessness. Each time she heard a punt-pole
striking on the bed of the river she raised her head
to look.

He came at last—­the man for whom her heart
waited. He was punting rapidly down-stream, and
she could not see his face. Yet she knew him,
by the swing of his arms, the goodly strength of his
muscles,—­and by the suffocating beating
of her heart. She saw that one hand was bandaged,
and a passionate feeling that was almost rapture thrilled
through and through her at the sight. Then he
shot beyond her vision, and she heard the punt bump
against the house-boat.

“It’s a gentleman to see you, miss,”
said the Badger, thrusting a grey and grinning visage
up the stairs.

“Ask him to come up!” said Hilary, steadying
her voice with an effort.

A moment later she rose to receive the man she loved.
And her heart suddenly ceased to beat.

“You!” she gasped, in a choked whisper.

He came straight forward. The last light of the
day shone on his smooth brown face, with its steady
eyes and strong mouth.

“Yes,” he said, and still through his
quiet tones she seemed to hear a faint echo of the
subdued twang which dwellers in the Far West sometimes
acquire. “I, John Merrivale, late of California,
beg to render to you, Hilary St. Orme, in addition
to my respectful homage, that freedom for which you
have not deigned to ask.”

She stared at him dumbly, one hand pressed against
her breast. The ripple of the river ran softly
through the silence. Slowly at last Merrivale
turned to go.

And then sharply, uncertainly, she spoke.

“Wait, please!” she said.

She moved close to him and laid her hand on the flower-bedecked
balustrade, trembling very much.

“Why have you done this?” Her quivering
voice sounded like a prayer.

He hesitated, then answered her quietly through the
gloom.

“I did it because I loved you.”

“And what did you hope to gain by it?”
breathed Hilary.

He did not answer, and she drew a little nearer as
though his silence reassured her.

Page 113

“Wouldn’t it have saved a lot of trouble,”
she said, her voice very low but no longer uncertain,
“if you had given me my freedom in the first
place? Don’t you think you ought to have
done that?”

“I should have appreciated it—­in
the first place,” said Hilary, and suddenly
there was a ripple of laughter in her voice like an
echo of the water below them. “But now
I—­I—­have no use for it.
It’s too late. Do you know, Jack, I’m
not sure he did spoil your game after all!”

He turned towards her swiftly, and she thrust out
her hands to him with a quick sob that became a laugh
as she felt his arms about her.

Two days later Viscount Merrivale’s friends
at the club read with interest and some amusement
the announcement that his marriage to Miss Hilary
St. Orme had been fixed to take place on the last day
of the month.

* * * *
*

Death’s Property

CHAPTER I

A high laugh rang with a note of childlike merriment
from the far end of the coffee-room as Bernard Merefleet,
who was generally considered a bear on account of
his retiring disposition, entered and took his seat
near the door. It was a decidedly infectious
laugh and perhaps for this reason it was the first
detail to catch his attention and to excite his disapproval.

He frowned as he glanced at the menu in front of him.

He had arrived in England after an absence of twenty
years in America, where he had made a huge fortune.
He was hungering for the quiet unhurried speech of
his fellow-countrymen, for the sights and sounds and
general atmosphere of English life which for so long
had been denied to him. And the first thing he
heard on entering the coffee-room of this English
hotel was the laugh of an American woman.

He had thought that in this remote corner of England—­this
little, old-world fishing town, with its total lack
of entertainment, its unfashionable beach, and its
wild North Sea breakers—­no unit of the
great Western race would have set foot. He had
believed its entire absence of attraction to be a
sure safeguard, and he was unfeignedly disgusted to
discover that this was not the case.

As he ate his dinner the high laugh broke in on his
meditations again and again, and his annoyance grew
to a sense of savage irritation. He had come
over to England for a rest after a severe illness,
and with an intense craving, after his twenty years
of stress and toil, to stand aside and watch the world—­the
English, conservative world he loved—­dawdle
by.

He wanted to bury himself in an unknown fishing-town
and associate with the simple, unflurried fisher-folk
alone. It was a dream of his—­a dream
which he had imagined near its fulfilment when he had
arrived in the peaceful little world of Old Silverstrand.

Page 114

There was a large and fashionable watering-place five
miles away. This was New Silverstrand, a town
of red brick, self-centred and prosperous. But
he had not thought that its visitors would have overflowed
into the old fishing-town. He himself saw no
attraction there save the peace of the shore and the
turmoil of the sea. He had known and loved the
old town in his youth, long before the new one had
been built or even thought of. For New Silverstrand
was a growth of barely ten years.

In all his wanderings his heart had always turned
with a warm thrill of memory to the little old fishing-town
where much of his restless boyhood had been spent.
He had returned to it as to a familiar friend and found
it but slightly changed. A new hotel had been
erected where the old Crayfish Inn had once stood.
And this, so far as he had been able to judge in his
first walk through the place on the evening of his
arrival, was the sole alteration.

He had heard that the shore had crumbled beyond the
town, but he had left that to be investigated on the
morrow. The fishing-harbour was the same; the
brown-sailed fishing-boats rocked with the well-remembered
swing inside; the water poured roaring in with the
same baffled fury; and children played as of old on
the extreme and dangerous edge of the stone quay.

The memory of that selfsame quay roused deeper recollections
in Merefleet’s mind as he sat and dined alone
at the little table near the door.

There came to him the thought, with a sudden, stabbing
regret, of a little dark-eyed sister who had hung
with him over that perilous edge and laughed at the
impotent breakers below. He could hear the silvery
echoes of her laughter across half a lifetime, could
feel the warm hand that clasped his own. A magic
touch swept aside the years and revealed the old,
glad days of his boyhood.

Merefleet pushed away his plate and sat with fixed
eyes, fascinated by the rosy vision. They were
side by side in a fishing-smack, he and the playmate
of his childhood. There was an old fisherman in
charge with grizzled hair, whose name, he recollected
without effort, was Quiller. He was showing the
little maid how to tie a knot that was warranted never
to come undone.

Merefleet watched the ardent, flushed face with a
deep reverence. He had not seen it so vividly
since the day he had kissed it for the last time and
gone forth into the seething sea of life to fight the
whirlpools. Well, he had emerged triumphant so
far as earthly success went. He had breasted
the tide and risen above the billows. He was wealthy,
and he was celebrated. No mortal power rose up
in his path to baulk him of his desire. Only
desire itself had failed him, and ambition had become
mockery.

For twenty years he had not had time to stop and think.
For twenty years he had wrestled ceaselessly with
the panting crowd. He had bartered away the best
years of his life to the gold god, and he was satiated
with the success of this transaction.

Page 115

In all that time he had not mourned, as he mourned
to-night, the loss of the twin-sister who had been
as his second and better self. He had not realised
till he sat alone in the place, where as a boy he had
never known solitude, how utterly flat and undesirable
was the future that stretched out like a trackless
desert at his feet.

And in that moment he would have cast away the whole
bulk of his great possessions for one precious day
of youth out of the many that had fled away for ever.

A woman’s laugh, high, inconsequent, rang through
the great coffee-room, and all but one looked towards
the corner whence it proceeded. An American voice
began at once to explain the joke with considerable
volubility.

Bernard Merefleet rose from his chair with a frowning
countenance and made his way down to the old stone
quay below the hotel.

CHAPTER II

The air was keen and salt. He paused on the well-worn
stone wall and turned his face to the spray.
A hundred memories were at work in his brain, and
the relief of solitude was unspeakable. It was
horribly lonely, but he hugged his loneliness.
That laughing voice in the hotel coffee-room had driven
him forth to seek it. No mental or physical discomfort
would have induced him to return.

He propped himself against a piece of stonework and
gazed moodily out to sea. He did not want to
leave this haven of his childhood. Yet the thought
of remaining in close proximity to a party of tourists
was detestable to him. Why in the world couldn’t
they stop away, he wondered savagely? And then
his own inconsistency occurred to him, and he smiled
grimly. For the place undoubtedly had its charm.

A fisherman in a blue jersey lounged on to the quay
at this point of his meditations, and, old habit asserting
itself, Merefleet greeted him with a remark on the
weather. The man halted in front of him in a
conversational attitude. Merefleet knew the position
well. It came back to him on a flood of memory.
He could not believe that it was twenty years since
he had talked with such an one.

“Wind in the nor’-east, sir,” said
the man.

“Yes. It’s cold for the time of year,”
said Merefleet.

The man assented.

“Fish plentiful?” asked Merefleet.

“Nothing to boast of,” was the guarded
reply.

Merefleet had expected it. Right well he knew
these fisher-folk.

“You get a few visitors now, I see,” Merefleet
observed.

The fisherman nodded. “Don’t know
what they come for,” he observed. “Bathing
ain’t good, and them pleasure-boats—­well”—­he
lifted his shoulders expressively—­“half-a-capful
of wind would upset ’em. There’s a
lady staying at this here hotel—­an American
lady she be—­what goes out every day regular,
she and a young gentleman with her. They won’t
have me nor yet any of my mates to go along, and yet—­bless
you—­they could no more manage that boat
if a squall was to come up nor they could fly.
I told her once as it wasn’t safe. And
she laughed in my face, sir. She did, really.”

Page 116

Merefleet smiled a little.

“Well, if she likes to run the risk it’s
not your fault,” he said.

“No, sir. It ain’t. But that
don’t make me any easier. She’s a
pretty young lady, too,” the man added.
“Maybe you’ve seen her, sir.”

Merefleet shook his head. He had heard her, and
he had no desire to improve his acquaintance with
her.

“As pretty a young lady as you would wish to
see,” continued the fisherman reflectively.
“Wonderful, she is. ’Tain’t
often we get such a picture in this here part of the
country. Ever been to America, sir?”

“Just come home,” said Merefleet.

“Are all the ladies over there as pretty as
this one, I wonder?” said his new acquaintance
in an awed tone.

“She seems to have made a considerable impression,”
said Merefleet, with a laugh. “What is
the lady like?”

But the man’s descriptive powers were not equal
to his admiration. “I couldn’t tell
you what she’s like, sir,” he said.
“But she’s that sort of young lady as
makes you feel you oughtn’t to talk to her with
your hat on. Ever met that sort of lady, sir?”

Merefleet uttered a short laugh. The man’s
simplicity amused him.

“I can’t say I have,” he said carelessly.
“Good-looking women are not always the best
sort, in my opinion.”

“That’s very true, sir,” assented
his companion thoughtfully. “There’s
my wife, for instance. She’s as good a
woman as you’d find anywhere, but her best friend
couldn’t call her handsome, nor even plain.”

And Merefleet laughed again. The man’s
talk had diverted his thoughts. The intolerable
sense of desolation had been lifted from his spirit.
He began to feel he had been somewhat unnecessarily
irritated by a very small matter.

He lighted a cigar and presented one to his new friend.
“I shall get you to row me out for a couple
of hours to-morrow,” he said. “By
the way, did you ever know a man called Quiller who
had some fishing craft in these parts twenty years
ago?”

The man beamed at the question. “That’s
my father, sir. He lives along with my wife and
the kids. Will you come and see him, sir?
Oh, yes, he’s well and hearty. But he’s
getting on in years, is dad. He don’t go
out with the luggers now. You’ll come and
see him, eh, sir?”

“To-morrow,” said Merefleet, turning.
“He will remember me, perhaps. No, I won’t
give you my name. The old chap shall find out
for himself. Good-night.”

And he began to saunter back towards his hotel.

The searchlight of a man-of-war anchored outside the
harbour was flashing over the shore as he went.
He watched the long shaft of light with half-involuntary
attention. He noted in an idle way various details
along the cliffs that were revealed by the white glow.
It touched the hotel at last and rested there for
the fraction of a minute.

And then a strange thing happened.

Looking upwards as he was, with fascinated eyes, following
the slanting line of light, Merefleet saw a sight
which was destined to live in his memory for all the
rest of his life, strive as he might to rid himself
of it.

Page 117

As in a dream-picture he saw the figure of a girl
standing on the steps of the terrace in front of the
hotel. The searchlight discovered her and lingered
upon her. She stood in the brilliant line of light,
a splendid vision of almost unearthly beauty.
Her neck and arms were bare, curved with the exquisite
grace of a Grecian statue. Her face was turned
towards the light—­a marvellous face, touched
with a faint, triumphant smile. She was dressed
in a robe of pure white that fell around her in long,
soft folds.

Merefleet gazed upon the wonder before him and asked
himself one breathless question: “Is that—­a
woman?”

And the answer seemed to spring from the very depth
of his being: “No! A goddess!”

It was the most gloriously perfect picture of beauty
he had ever looked upon.

The searchlight flashed on and the hotel garden was
left in darkness.

A chill sense of loss swept down upon Merefleet, but
the impression did not last. He threw away his
cigar with an impetuosity oddly out of keeping with
his somewhat rugged and unimpressionable nature.
A hot desire to see that face again at close quarters
possessed him—­the face of the loveliest
woman he had ever beheld.

He reached the hotel and sat down in the vestibule.
Evidently this marvellous woman was staying in the
place. He watched the doorway with a strange
feeling of excitement. He had not been so moved
for years.

At length there came a quick, light tread. The
next moment he was gazing again upon the vision that
had charmed him out of all commonsense. She stood,
framed in the night, white and pure and gloriously,
most surpassingly, beautiful. Merefleet felt
his heart throb heavily. He sat in dead silence,
looking at her with fascinated eyes. Had he called
her a Greek goddess? He had better have said
angel. For this was no earth-born loveliness.

She stood for several seconds looking towards him
with shining, radiant eyes. Then she moved forward.
Merefleet’s eyes were fixed upon her. He
could not have looked away just then. He was absurdly
uncertain of himself.

She paused near him with the light pouring full upon
her. Her eyes met his with a momentary questioning.
Then ruthlessly she broke the spell.

“Say, now!” she said in brisk, high tones.
“Isn’t that searchlight thing a real cute
invention?”

CHAPTER III

Merefleet shivered at the words. He did not answer
her. The shock had been too great. He sat
stiff and silent, waiting for more.

The American girl looked at him with a pitying little
smile. She was wholly unabashed.

“I reckon the man who invented searchlights
was no fool,” she remarked. “I just
wish that quaint old battleship would come right along
here. It’s not exciting, this place.”

“New Silverstrand would be more to your taste,
I fancy,” said Merefleet, reluctantly forced
to speak.

Page 118

The smile on the beautiful face developed into a wicked
little gleam of amusement. “That’s
so, I daresay,” said the high voice. “But
you see, I wasn’t consulted. I’ve
just got to go where I’m taken.”

She sank into a chair opposite Merefleet and leant
forward.

Merefleet sat perfectly rigid. There was a marvellous
witchery about the clasped hands and bent head before
him. But he did not mean to let his idiotic sentimentality
carry him away again. So long as the enchantress
was speaking, the spell was wholly impotent. Therefore
he should not suffer her to relapse into silence.
Yet—­how he hated that high, piercing voice!
It was like the desecration of something sacred.
It made him shrink in involuntary protest.

“Say!” suddenly exclaimed his companion,
looking at him sharply. “Aren’t you
Bernard Merefleet of New York City?”

Merefleet frowned unconsciously at the notoriety that
was his.

“I was in New York until recently,” he
said with some curtness.

“Exactly what I said,” she returned triumphantly.
“A friend of mine snap-shotted you walking up
Fifth Avenue. He said to me: ’Here’s
Merefleet the gold-king, one of the cutest men in U.S.A.
His first name is Bernard. So we call him the
Big Bear for short.’ Ever heard your pet
name before?”

“Never,” said Merefleet stiffly, with
a suggestive hand on the evening paper. He wished
she would leave him alone. With his eyes averted
at length, the charm of her presence ceased to attract
him. He even fancied he resented her freedom.
But the girl only laughed carelessly. She had
not the smallest intention of moving.

Merefleet started a little at the audacity of this
speech. And again he was looking at her.
There was a funny little smile twitching the corners
of her mouth. Her beauty was irresistible.
Even the iron barrier of his churlish avoidance was
severely shaken. She was hard to withstand, this
witch with her friendly eyes and frank speech, despite
her jarring voice.

She nodded to him sociably as she met his grave look.
“You aren’t on a pleasure-trip, I reckon,”
she observed.

“Pleasure!” said Merefleet, giving way
with abrupt bitterness. “No. There’s
not much pleasure in unearthing skeletons. That’s
what I’m doing.”

The beautiful eyes opposite opened wide. She
was silent for a moment. Then, “Think you’re
wise?” she enquired casually.

“No,” said Merefleet roughly. “I’m
a fool.”

She nodded acquiescence. “That’s
so, I daresay,” she said. “I was afraid
you were sick.”

Page 119

She shook her head. “Tell me what you like
best in the world!” she said.

Merefleet reflected.

“You must know,” she insisted briskly.
“Is it a woman?”

“Good heavens, no!” said Merefleet, with
an emphasis not particularly flattering to the sex.

“Well, then,” she said, “p’r’aps
it’s the sea?”

“You may say so for the sake of argument,”
said Merefleet.

“I don’t argue,” she responded,
with what he took for a touch of heat. “If
people disagree with me I just shunt.”

“Excellent policy,” said Merefleet, interested
in spite of himself. He fancied a faint shadow
crossed her face. But she continued to speak with
barely a pause. “If you like the sea you’d
better join Bert and me. We go out every day.
It’s real fun.”

“Exciting as well as dangerous,” suggested
Merefleet.

She nodded again. It was a habit of hers when
roused to eagerness. “You’ve hit
it. It’s just that,” she said.
“Will you come?”

Merefleet hesitated. He was still inclined to
be surly. But the new influence was not so easy
to resist as he had imagined. The woman before
him attracted him strongly, despite the fact that he
now knew her loveliness to be but mortal; despite
the constant jar of her shrill voice.

“Who is Bert?” he enquired at length,
reluctantly aware that in temporising he signed away
his freedom of action.

“Bert’s my cousin,” she answered.
“He’s English right through. You’d
like Bert. He’s in the smoke-room.
Bert and I are great chums.”

“Are you staying here alone together?”
Merefleet enquired.

She nodded. “Bert is taking care of me,”
she explained. “He’s like a son to
me. I call him my English bull-dog. I just
love bull-dogs, Mr. Merefleet.”

Merefleet was silent.

She stretched out her arms with a swift, unconscious
movement of weariness.

“Well,” she said, “I’m real
lazy to-night, and that’s fact. I guess
you want to smoke, so I’ll go and leave you
in peace.”

She rose and stood for a few moments in the doorway,
looking out into the pulsing darkness beyond.
Merefleet watched her, fascinated. And as he
watched, a deep shadow rose and lingered on the beautiful
face. Moved by an instinct he did not stop to
question, he rose abruptly and stood beside her.
There was a pause. Then suddenly she looked up
at him and the shadow was gone.

“Isn’t he cross?” she said.

“Who?” asked Merefleet.

“Why, that funny old sea,” she laughed.
“He’s just wild to dash over and swamp
us all. Supposing he did, should you care any?”

“I don’t know,” said Merefleet.

Her eyes were full of a soft laughter as she looked
at him. Suddenly she laid a childish hand on
his arm. “Oh, you poor old Bear!”
she said, dropping her voice a little. “I’m
real sorry for you!”

And then she turned swiftly and was gone from his
side like a flash of sunlight.

Page 120

CHAPTER IV

It was some time later that Merefleet entered the
smoking-room to satisfy a certain curiosity which
had taken possession of him. He looked round
the room as he sat down, and almost at once his attention
lighted upon a broad-shouldered man of about thirty
with a plain, square-jawed face of great determination,
who sat, puffing at a short pipe, by the open window.

Merefleet silently observed this man for some time,
till, his scrutiny making itself felt, the object
of it wheeled abruptly in his chair and returned it.

Merefleet leant forward. It was so little his
custom to open conversation with a stranger that his
manner was abrupt and somewhat forced on this unusual
occasion.

The reply was delivered in a manner as curt as his
own. “My name is Seton,” said the
stranger. “As you have only met me once
before, you probably won’t recall it now.”

Merefleet nodded comprehension. He loved the
straight, quiet speech of Englishmen. There was
no flurry or palaver about this specimen. He spoke
as a man quite sure of himself and wholly independent
of his fellow men.

“Ah, I remember you now,” Merefleet said.
“You came as Ralph Warrender’s guest to
a club dinner in New York. Am I right?”

“Perfectly,” said Seton. “You
were the guest of the evening. You made a good
speech, I remember. You were looking horribly
ill. I suppose that is how I came to notice you
particularly.”

“I was ill,” said Merefleet, “or
I should have been out of New York before that dinner
came off. I always detested the place. And
Warrender would have done far better in my place.”

“I am not an admirer of Warrender,” said
Seton bluntly.

Merefleet made no comment. He was never very
free in the statement of his opinion.

“The railway accident in which his wife was
killed took place immediately after that dinner, I
believe?” he observed presently. “I
remember hearing of it when I was recovering.”

“It was a shocking thing—­that accident,”
said Seton thoughtfully. “It’s odd
that Americans always manage to do that sort of thing
on such a gigantic scale.”

“They do everything on a gigantic scale,”
said Merefleet. “What became of Warrender
afterwards? It was an awful business for him.”

“I don’t know anything about him,”
Seton answered, with a brevity that seemed to betray
lack of interest. “He was no friend of mine,
though I chanced to be his guest on that occasion.
I was distantly connected with his wife, and I inherited
some of her money at her death. She was a rich
woman, as you probably know.”

“So I heard. But I have never found New
York gossip particularly attractive.”

Seton leant his elbow on the window-sill and gazed
meditatively into the night. “If it comes
to that,” he said slowly, “no gossip is
exactly edifying. And to be the victim of it
is to be in the most undesirable position under the
sun.”

Page 121

It struck Merefleet that he uttered the words with
some force, almost with the deliberate intention of
conveying a warning; and, being the last man in the
world to attempt to fathom the wholly irrelevant affairs
of his neighbour, he dropped into silence and began
to smoke.

Seton sat motionless for some time. The murmur
of a conversation that was being sleepily sustained
by two men in the room behind them created no disturbing
influence. Presently Seton spoke casually, but
with that in his tone which made Merefleet vaguely
conscious of an element of suspicion.

“You didn’t expect to see me just now,
did you?” he asked.

“No,” said Merefleet. “I should
have taken the trouble to call your name to mind before
I spoke if I had.”

Seton nodded. “I saw you at table d’hote”
he remarked. “I was with my cousin at the
other end of the room. You were gone when we got
up.”

“Your cousin?” said Merefleet deliberately.
“Is that the American lady who is staying here?”

“Yes. Miss Ward. She is from New York,
too. You may have seen her there.”

“No,” said Merefleet. “I know
very little of New York society, or any society for
the matter of that.”

Seton turned and looked at him with a smile.
“Odd,” he said. “For there
can be scarcely a man, woman, or child, here or in
America, who does not know you by name.”

“Not so bad as that, I hope,” said Merefleet.
And Seton laughed.

“You have the reputation for shunning celebrity,”
he remarked.

“So I understand,” said Merefleet.
“I hope the reputation will be my protection.”

Young Seton became genial from that point onward.
Without being communicative, he managed to convey
the impression that he was quite prepared to be friendly.
And for some reason unexplained Merefleet was pleased.
He went to bed that night with somewhat revised ideas
on the subject of society in general and the society
of American girls in particular.

CHAPTER V

“Is this the gentleman as was to come and see
me? Come in, sir. Come in! My old eyes
ain’t so sharp as they used to be, but I can
see a many things yet.”

And old Quiller, the fisherman, removed his sou’wester
from his snowy head and peered at the visitor from
under his hand.

“You don’t know me, eh, Quiller?”
Merefleet said.

He was surprised to hear a high voice from the interior
of the cottage break in on the old man’s hesitating
reply.

“He’s a sort of walking monkey-puzzle,
I guess,” said the voice, and a roguish laugh
followed the words.

Merefleet looked over old Quiller’s shoulder
into the little kitchen. She was standing by
the table with her sleeves up to her elbows, making
some invalid dish. A shaft of sunlight slanting
through the tiny window fell full upon her as she
stood. It made him think of the searchlight glory
of the previous night. She shone like a princess
in her lowly surroundings.

Page 122

She nodded to him gaily as she met his eyes.

“Come right in!” she said hospitably.
“And I shall tell Grandpa Quiller who you are.”

“Aye, but I know,” broke in the old man
eagerly. “Master Bernard, ain’t it?
That’s right, sonny. That’s right.
Yes, come in! There! I never thought to
see you again. That I never did. This here’s
little missie what comes regular to see my daughter-in-law
as has been laid by this week or more. I calls
her our good angel,” he ended tenderly.
“She’s been the Lord’s own blessing
to us ever since she come.”

Merefleet, thus invited, entered and sat down on a
wooden chair by the table. Old Quiller turned
in also and fussed about him with the solicitude that
comes with age.

“No,” he said meditatively, “I never
thought to see you again, Master Bernard. Why,
it’s twenty year come Michaelmas since you said
‘Good-bye.’ And little miss was with
you. Ah, dear! It do make me think of them
days to see you in the old place again. I always
said as I’d never see the match of little miss
but this young lady, sir—­she’s just
such another, bless her.”

Merefleet, with his eyes on the busy white hands at
the table, smiled at the eulogy.

The American girl glanced at him and laughed more
softly than usual. “Isn’t he fine?”
she said. “I just love that old man.”

Somehow that peculiar voice of hers did not jar upon
him quite so painfully as he sat and watched her at
her dexterous work. There was something about
her employment that revealed to him a side of her that
her frivolous manner would never have led him to suspect.
While he talked to the old fisherman, more than half
his attention was centred on her beautiful, innocent
face.

“My!” she suddenly exclaimed, turning
upon him with a dazzling smile. “I reckon
you’ll almost be equal to beating up an egg yourself
if you watch long enough.”

“Perhaps,” said Merefleet.

She laughed gaily. “Are you coming along
with Bert and me this afternoon in Quiller’s
boat?” she inquired.

“I believed I have engaged Quiller to come and
do the hard work for me,” Merefleet said.

“You!” She was bending over the fire,
stirring the beaten egg into a saucepan. “Oh,
you lazy old Bear!” she said reprovingly.
“What good will that do you?”

“I don’t know that I want anything to
do me good,” Merefleet returned. He had
become almost genial under these unusual circumstances.
It was certainly no easy matter to keep this exceedingly
sociable young lady at a distance.

He was watching the warm colour rising in her face
as she stooped over the fire. He had never imagined
that the art of cookery could be conducted with so
much of grace and charm. Her odd, high voice instantly
broke in on this reflection.

“I’m going to see Mrs. Quiller and the
baby now,” she said, with her sprightly little
nod. “So long, Big Bear!”

The little kitchen suddenly looked dull and empty.
The sun had gone in. Old Quiller was sucking
tobacco ruminatively, his fit of loquacity over.

Page 123

Merefleet rose. “Well, I am glad to have
seen you, Quiller,” he said, patting the old
man’s shoulder with a kindly hand. “I
must come in again. You and I are old friends,
you know, and old comrades, too. Good-bye!”

Quiller looked at him rather vacantly. The fire
of life was sinking low in his veins. He had
grown sluggish with the years, and the spark of understanding
was seldom bright.

“Aye, she would,” said the old man, shifting
the tobacco in his cheek. “She’s
been a rare comfort to me and mine. She’d
be a blessing to your home, Master Bernard. Take
an old chap’s word for it, an old chap as knows
what’s what. That young lady’ll be
the joy of some man’s heart some day. You’ve
got your chance, Master Bernard. You be that man!”

CHAPTER VI

“Say, Bert! We can take Big Bear along
in our boat. Isn’t that so?”

Merefleet looked up from his paper as he heard the
words. They were seated at the next table at
lunch, his American friend and her excessively English
cousin. Merefleet noticed that she was dressed
for boating. She wore a costume of white linen,
and a Panama hat was crammed jauntily on the soft,
dark hair. She was anything but dignified.
Yet there was something splendid in the very recklessness
of her beauty. She was a queen who did not need
to assert her rights. There were other women
present, and Merefleet was not even conscious of the
fact.

“Who?” asked Seton, in response to her
careless inquiry.

She nodded in Merefleet’s direction and caught
his eye as she did so.

“He’s the cutest man in U.S.,” she
said, staring him straight in the face without sign
of recognition. “But he’s real lazy.
He saw me making custard at Grandpa Quiller’s
this morning, and he wasn’t even smart enough
to lift the saucepan off the fire. I thought he
might have had spunk enough for that, anyway.”

Twenty-four hours earlier Merefleet would have deliberately
hunched his shoulders, turned his back, and read his
paper. But his education was in sure hands.
He had made rapid progress since the day before.

He leant a little towards his critic and said gravely:

“Pray accept my apologies for the omission!
To tell you the truth, I was not watching the progress
of the cookery.”

The girl nodded as if appeased.

“You can come and sit at this table,”
she said, indicating a chair opposite to her.
“I guess you know my cousin Bert Seton.”

She looked at him with a little smile of superior
knowledge. “I guess lots,” she said,
but proffered no explanation of her shrewd conclusion.

Page 124

Young Seton greeted Merefleet with less cordiality
than he had displayed on the previous evening.
There was a suggestion of caution in his manner that
created a somewhat unfavourable impression in Merefleet’s
mind.

Already he was beginning to wonder how these two came
to be thus isolated in the forgotten little town of
Old Silverstrand. It was not a natural state
of affairs. Neither the girl with her marvellous
beauty, nor the man with his peculiar concentration
of purpose, was a fitting figure for such a background.
They were out of place—­most noticeably so.

Merefleet was the very last man to make observations
of such a description. But this was a matter
so obvious and so undeniably strange that it forced
itself upon him half against his will. He became
strongly aware that Seton did not desire his presence
in the boat with him and his cousin. He did not
fathom the objection. But its existence was not
to be ignored. And Merefleet wondered a little,
as he cast about in his mind for a suitable excuse
wherewith to decline the girl’s invitation.

“It’s very good of you to ask me to accompany
you, Miss Ward,” he said presently. “But
I know that Quiller the younger is under the impression
that I have engaged him to row me out of the harbour
and bring me back again. And I don’t see
very well how I can cancel the engagement.”

Miss Ward nudged her cousin at this speech.

“Oh, if he isn’t just quaint!” she
said. “Look here, Bert! You’re
running this show. Tell Mr. Merefleet it’s
all fixed up, and if he won’t come along with
us he won’t go at all, as we’ve got Quiller’s
boat!”

Seton glanced up, slightly frowning.

“My dear Mab,” he said, “allow Mr.
Merefleet to please himself! The fact that you
are willing to put your life in my hands day after
day is no guarantee of my skill as a rower, remember.”

“Oh, skittles!” said Mab irrelevantly.

And Seton, meeting Merefleet’s eyes, shrugged
his shoulders as if disclaiming all further responsibility.

Mab leant forward.

“You’d better come, Mr. Merefleet,”
she said in a motherly tone. “It’ll
be a degree more lively than mooning around by yourself.”

And Merefleet yielded, touched by something indescribable
in the beautiful, glowing eyes that were lifted to
his. Apparently she wanted him to go, and it
seemed to him too small a thing to refuse. Perhaps,
also, he consulted his own inclination.

Seton dropped his distant manner after a time.
Nevertheless the impression of being under the young
man’s close observation lingered with Merefleet,
and Mab herself seemed to feel a strain. She grew
almost silent till lunch was over, and then, recovering,
she entered into a sprightly conversation with Merefleet.

They went down to the shore shortly after, and embarked
in Quiller’s boat. Mab sat in the stern
under a scarlet sunshade and talked gaily to her two
companions. She was greatly amused when Merefleet
insisted upon doing his share of the work.

Page 125

“I love to see you doing the galley-slave,”
she said. “I know you hate it, you poor
old Bear.”

But Merefleet did not hate his work. He sat facing
her throughout the afternoon, gazing to his heart’s
content on the perfect picture before him. He
wore his hands to blisters, and the sun beat mercilessly
down upon him. But he felt neither weariness
nor impatience, neither regret nor surliness.

A magic touch had started the life in his veins; the
revelation of a wandering searchlight had transformed
his sordid world into a palace of delight. He
accepted the fact without question. He had no
wish to go either forward or backward.

The blue sea and the blue sky, and the distant, shining
shore. These were what he had often longed for
in the rush and tumult of a great, unresting city.
But in the foreground of his picture, beyond desire
and more marvellous than imagination, was the face
of the loveliest woman he had ever seen.

CHAPTER VII

There was no wandering alone on the quay for Merefleet
that night. It was very warm and he sat on the
terrace with his American friend. Far away over
at New Silverstrand, a band was playing, and the music
came floating across the harbour with the silvery
sweetness which water imparts. The lights of
the new town were very bright. It looked like
a dream-city seen from afar.

“I guess we are just a couple of Peris shut
outside,” said Mab in her brisk, unsentimental
voice. “I like it best outside, don’t
you, Big Bear?”

“Yes,” said Merefleet, with a simplicity
that provoked her mirth.

“Oh, aren’t you just perfect!” she
said. “You’ve done me no end of good.
I’d pay you back if I could.”

Merefleet was silent. He could not see her beautiful
face, but her words touched him inexplicably.

There was a long pause. Then, to his great surprise,
a warm little hand slipped on to his knee in the darkness
and a voice, so small that he hardly recognised it,
said humbly:

“Mr. Merefleet, I’m real sorry.”

Merefleet started a little.

“Good heavens! Why?” he said.

“Sorry you disapprove of me,” she said,
with a little break in her voice. “Bert
used to be the same. But he’s different
now. He knows I wasn’t made prim and proper.”

She paused. Merefleet’s hand was on her
own. He sat in silence, but somehow his silence
was kind.

She went on. “I wasn’t going to speak
last night. Only you looked so melancholy at
dinner. And then I thought p’r’aps
you were lonely, like I am. I didn’t find
out till afterwards that you didn’t like the
way I talked.”

“Do you know you make me feel a most objectionable
cad?” said Merefleet.

“Oh, no, you aren’t that,” she hastened
to assure him. “I’m positive you
aren’t that. It was my fault. I spoke
first. I thought you looked real sad. And
I always want to hearten up sad folks. You see
I’ve been there, and I know what it is.”

Page 126

“You!” said Merefleet.

Did he hear a sob in the darkness beside him?
He fancied so. The hand that lay beneath his
own twitched as if agitated.

“What do you know about trouble?” said
Merefleet.

She did not answer him. Only he heard a long,
hard sigh. Then she laughed rather mirthlessly.

“Well,” she said, “there aren’t
many things in this world worth crying for. You’ve
had enough of me, I guess. It’s time I shunted.”

She tried to withdraw her hand, but Merefleet’s
hold tightened.

“No, no. Not yet,” he said, almost
as if he were pleading with her. “I’ve
behaved abominably. But don’t punish me
like this!”

She laughed again and yielded.

“You ought to know your own mind by now,”
she said, with something of her former briskness.
“It’s a rum world, Mr. Merefleet.”

“It isn’t the world,” said Merefleet.
“It’s the people in it. Now, Miss
Ward, I have a favour to ask. Promise me that
you will never again imagine for a moment that I am
not pleased—­more, honoured—­when
you are good enough to stop by the way and speak to
me. Of your charity you have stooped to pity
my loneliness. And, believe me, I do most sincerely
appreciate it.”

“My!” she said. “That’s
the nicest thing you’ve said yet. Yes, I
promise that. You’re real kind, do you
know? You make me feel miles better.”

She drew her hand gently away. Merefleet was
trying to discern her features in the darkness.

“Are you really lonely, I wonder?” he
said. “Or is that a figure of speech?”

“It isn’t literal truth, you know,”
he answered gravely. “You will not persuade
me that it is.”

“I’m no judge then,” she said, with
a note of recklessness in her voice.

“You have your cousin,” Merefleet pointed
out, feeling that he was on uncertain ground, yet
unaccountably anxious to prove it. “You
are not utterly alone while he is with you.”

She uttered a shrill little laugh. “Why,”
she said, “I believe you think I’m in
love with Bert.”

Page 127

Merefleet was silent.

“I’m not, you know,” she said, after
a momentary pause. “I’m years older
than Bert, anyhow.”

“Oh, come!” said Merefleet.

“Figuratively, of course,” she explained.

“I understand,” said Merefleet. And
there was a silence.

Suddenly she laughed again merrily.

“May I share the joke?” asked Merefleet.

“You won’t see it,” she returned.
“I’m laughing at you, Big Bear. You
are just too quaint for anything.”

Merefleet did not see the joke, but he did not ask
for an explanation.

Seton himself strolled on to the terrace and joined
them directly after; and Mab began to shiver and went
indoors.

The two men sat together for some time, talking little.
Seton seemed preoccupied and Merefleet became sleepy.
It was he who at length proposed a move.

Seton rose instantly. “Mr. Merefleet,”
he said rather awkwardly, “I want to say a word
to you.”

Merefleet waited in silence.

“Concerning my cousin,” Seton proceeded.
“You will probably misread my motive for saying
this. But nevertheless it must be said. It
is not advisable that you should become very intimate
with her.”

He brought out the words with a jerk. It had
been a difficult thing to say, but he was not a man
to shrink from difficulties. Having said it, he
waited quietly for the result.

Merefleet paused a moment before he spoke. Seton
had surprised him, but he did not show it.

“I shall not misread your motive,” he
said, “as I seldom speculate on matters that
do not concern me. But allow me to say that I
consider your warning wholly uncalled for.”

“Exactly,” said Seton, “I expected
you to say that. Well, I am sorry. It is
quite impossible for me to explain myself. I hope
for your sake you will never be placed in the position
in which I am now. I assure you it is anything
but an enviable one.”

His manner, blunt and direct, appealed very strongly
to Merefleet. He said nothing, however, and they
went in together in unbroken silence. Mab did
not reappear that night.

CHAPTER VIII

A fortnight passed away and Merefleet was still at
the hotel at Old Silverstrand. Mab was there
also, the idol of the fisher-folk, and an unfailing
source of interest and admiration to casual visitors
at the hotel.

Merefleet, though he had become a privileged acquaintance,
was still wholly unenlightened with regard to the
circumstances which had brought her to the place under
Seton’s escort.

As time went on, it struck Merefleet that these two
were a somewhat incongruous couple. They dined
together and they usually boated together in the afternoon—­this
last item on account of Mab’s passion for the
sea; but beyond this they lived considerably apart.
Neither seemed to seek the other’s society,
and if they met at lunch, it was never by preconceived
arrangement.

Page 128

Merefleet saw more of Mab when she was ashore than
Seton did. They would meet on the quay, in old
Quiller’s cottage, or in the hotel-garden, several
times a day. Occasionally he would accompany them
on the water, but not often. He had a notion
that Seton preferred his absence, and he would not
go where he felt himself to be an intruder.

Nevertheless, the primary fascination had not ceased
to act upon him; the glamour of the girl’s beauty
was still in his eyes something more than earthly.
And there came a time when Bernard Merefleet listened
with unconscious craving for the high, unmodulated
voice, and smiled with a tender indulgence over the
curiously naive audacity which once had made him shrink.

As for Mab, she was too eagerly interested in various
matters to give more than a passing thought to the
fact that the man she called Big Bear had laid aside
his surliness. If she thought about it at all,
it was only to conclude that their daily intercourse
had worn away the outer crust of his shyness.

She was always busy—­in and out of the fishermen’s
cottages, where she was welcomed as an angel—­to
and fro on a hundred schemes, all equally interesting
and equally absorbing. And Merefleet was called
upon to assist. She singled him out for her friendship
because he was as one apart and without interests.
She drew him into her own bubbling life. She
laughed at him, consulted him, enslaved him.

All innocently she wove her spell about this man.
He was lonely, she knew; and she, in her ardent, great-souled
pity for all such, was willing to make cheerful sacrifice
of her own time and strength if thus she might ease
but a little the burden that galled a fellow-traveller’s
shoulders.

Merefleet came upon her once standing in the sunshine
with Mrs. Quiller’s baby in her arms. She
beckoned him to speak to her. “Come here
if you aren’t afraid of babies!” she said,
displaying her charge. “Look at him, Big
Bear! He’s three weeks old to-day.
Isn’t he fine?”

“What do you know about babies?” said
Merefleet, with his eyes on her lovely flushed face.

She nodded in her sprightly fashion, but her eyes
were far away on the distant horizon, and her soul
with them. “I know a lot, Big Bear,”
she said.

Merefleet watched her, well pleased with the sight.
She stood rocking to and fro. Her gaze was fixed
and tender.

“I wonder what you see,” Merefleet said,
after a pause.

Her eyes came back at once to her immediate surroundings.

“Shall I tell you, Big Bear?” she said.

“Yes,” said Merefleet, marvelling at the
radiance of her face.

And, her voice hushed to a whisper, she moved a pace
nearer to him and told him.

“Just a little baby friend of mine who lives
over there,” she said. “I’m
going to see him some day. I guess he’ll
be glad, don’t you?”

“Who wouldn’t?” said Merefleet.
“But that’s not the West, you know.”

Page 129

“No,” she said simply. “He’s
in the Land beyond the sea, Big Bear.” And
with a strange little smile into his face, she drew
the shawl closer about the child in her arms and disappeared
into Quiller’s cottage.

There was something in this interview that troubled
Merefleet unaccountably. But when he saw her
again, her mirth was brimming over, and he thought
she had forgotten.

CHAPTER IX

It was about a week after this conversation that Merefleet,
invited by Seton, joined his two friends at table
d’hote at their table. The suggestion
came from Mab, he strongly suspected, for she seconded
Seton’s proposal so vigorously that to decline
would have been almost an impossibility.

“I agree with you, of course,” said Merefleet,
with a glance at Seton which discovered little.

“Isn’t he getting polite?” said
the American girl approvingly. “Say, Bert!
I guess you’ll have to take lessons in manners
or he’ll get ahead of you.”

Seton smiled indulgently. He was this girl’s
watch-dog and protector. He aspired to be no
more.

“My dear girl, you will never make a social
ornament of me as long as you live,” he said.

And Mab patted his arm affectionately.

“You’re nicer as you are, dear boy,”
she said. “You aren’t smart, it’s
true, but I give you the highest mark for real niceness.”

Seton’s eyes met Merefleet’s for a second.
There was a touch of uneasiness about him, as if he
feared Merefleet might misconstrue something.
And Merefleet considerately struck a topic which he
believed to be wholly impersonal.

“By the way,” he said, “I had an
American paper sent me to-day. It may interest
you to hear that Ralph Warrender has resigned his seat
in Congress and married again.”

“What?” said Seton.

“My!” cried Mab, with a shrill laugh.
“That is news, Mr. Merefleet!”

Merefleet glanced at her sharply, his attention arrested
by something he did not understand. Seton pushed
a glass of sherry towards her, but he was looking
at Merefleet.

“News indeed!” he said deliberately.
“Is it actually an accomplished fact?”

“According to the New York Herald,”
said Merefleet.

Mab’s face was growing whiter and whiter.
Seton still leant over the table, striving with all
his resolution to force Merefleet’s attention
away from her. But Merefleet would not allow it.
He saw what Seton did not stop to see; and it was
he, not Seton, who lifted her to her feet a moment
later and half-led, half-carried her out of the stifling
room.

With a practical commonsense eminently characteristic
of him, Seton remained to pour out a glass of brandy;
and thus armed he followed them into the vestibule.
Mab was lying back in an arm-chair when he arrived.
Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing quickly.
Merefleet was propping open the door on to the terrace.
The lights flickered in the draught and gave a strange
look to the colourless face on the cushion. It
was like a beautifully carved marble. But for
Merefleet the place was deserted.

Page 130

Seton knelt down and held the glass to his cousin’s
lips.

Merefleet returned softly and paused behind her chair.

“It’s this confounded heat,” said
Seton in a savage undertone. “She will
be all right directly.”

Merefleet said nothing. Again he was keenly conscious
of the fact that Seton wanted to get rid of him.
But a stronger influence than Seton possessed kept
him standing there.

Mab opened her eyes as the neat spirit burnt her lips.
She tried to push the glass away, but Seton would
not allow it.

“Just a drain, my dear girl,” he said.
“It will do you all the good in the world.
And then—­Merefleet,” glancing up at
him, “will you fetch some water?”

Merefleet went as desired.

When he returned, Mab was lying forward in Seton’s
arms, crying as he had never seen any woman cry before.
And Seton was stroking her hair in silence.

Merefleet set down the water noiselessly, and went
softly out into the summer dusk. But the great
waves beating on the shore could not drown the memory
of a woman’s bitter sobbing. And the man’s
heart was dumb and heavy with the trouble he could
not fathom.

Some hours later, returning from a weary tramp along
the shore, he encountered Seton pacing to and fro
on the terrace.

“She is better,” he said, in answer to
Merefleet’s conventional enquiry. “It
was the heat, you know, that upset her.”

“Yes,” said Merefleet quietly. “I
know.”

Seton walked away restlessly, more as if he wished
to keep on the move than to avoid Merefleet.
He came back, however, after a few seconds.

“Look here, Merefleet,” he said abruptly,
“you may take offence, but you can’t quarrel
without my consent. For Heaven’s sake, leave
this place! You are doing more mischief than
you have the smallest notion of.”

There was that in his manner which roused the instinct
of opposition in Merefleet.

“You will either tell me what you mean,”
he said, “or you need not expect to gain your
point. Veiled hints, like anonymous letters, do
not deserve any man’s serious consideration.”

Seton muttered something inaudible and became silent.

Merefleet waited for some moments and then began to
move off. But the younger man instantly turned
and detained him with an imperative hand.

“What I mean is this,” he said, and the
starlight on his face showed it to be very determined.
“My cousin is not in a position to receive any
man’s attentions. She is not free.
I have tried to persuade myself into thinking you
want nothing but ordinary friendship. I should
infinitely prefer to think that if you can assure
me that I am justified in so doing.”

“What is it to you?” said Merefleet.

“To me personally it is more a matter of family
honour than anything else. Moreover I am her
sole protector, and as such I am bound to assert a
certain amount of authority.”

Page 131

“So you may,” said Merefleet quietly.
“But I do not see that that involves my departure.”

Seton struck the balustrade of the terrace with an
impatient hand. “Can’t you understand?”
he said rather thickly. “How else can I
put it?”

“I have no desire to pry into your affairs,
Heaven knows,” Merefleet said, “but this
I will say. If I can be of use to either of you
in helping to dispose of what appears to be a somewhat
awkward predicament you may rely upon me with absolute
safety.”

“Thanks!” Seton turned slowly and held
out his hand. “There is only one thing
you can do,” he said, with an awkward laugh.
“And that is precisely what you are not prepared
to do. All right. I suppose it’s human
nature. I am obliged to you all the same.
Good-night!”

CHAPTER X

“Say, Big Bear! Will you take me on the
water?”

Merefleet, lounging on the shingle with a pipe and
newspaper, looked up with a start and hastened to
knock out the half-burnt tobacco on the heel of his
boot.

His American friend stood above him, clad in the white
linen costume she always wore for boating. She
looked very enchanting and very childlike. Merefleet
who had seen her last sobbing bitterly in her cousin’s
arms, stared up at her with wonder and relief on his
face.

She nodded to him. Her eyes were marvellously
bright, but he did not ascribe their brilliance to
recent tears.

“Not a bit.” Merefleet stumbled to
his feet and raised his hat. “Pardon my
sluggishness! How are you this morning?”

“Fresh as paint,” she returned. “But
I’m just dying to get on the water. And
Bert has gone off somewhere by himself. I guess
you’ll help me, Big Bear. Won’t you?”

Merefleet glanced from the sea to the sun.

“There’s a change coming,” he said.
“I will go with you with pleasure. But
I think it would be advisable to wait till the afternoon
as usual. We shall probably know by then what
sort of weather to expect.”

Mab pouted a little.

“We shan’t go at all if we wait,”
she declared. “Why can’t we go while
the fine weather lasts? I believe you want to
back out of it. It’s real lazy of you,
Big Bear. You shan’t read, anyhow.”

She took his paper from his unresisting hands, dug
a hole in the shingle with vicious energy, and covered
it over.

“Now what?” she said, looking up at him
with an impudent smile.

“Now,” said Merefleet gravely, “I
will take you for a row.”

“Will you? Big Bear, you’re a brick.
I’ll put you into my will. No, I won’t,
because I haven’t got anything to leave.
And you wouldn’t want it if I had. Say,
Big Bear! Haven’t you got any friends?”

Merefleet looked surprised at the abrupt question.

“I have one friend in England besides yourself,
Miss Ward,” he replied. “His name
is Clinton. But he is married and done for.”

Page 132

“My! What a pity!” she exclaimed.
“Isn’t he happy?”

“Oh, yes, I think so. Still, you know,
most fellows have to sacrifice something when they
marry. He was a war-correspondent. But he
has spoilt himself for that.”

“I see.” Mab was prodding the shingle
with the end of her sunshade, her face very thoughtful.
Suddenly she looked up. “Never get married,
Big Bear!” she said vehemently. “It’s
the most miserable state in Christendom.”

“Anyone would think you spoke from experience,”
said Merefleet, smiling a little.

But Mab did not smile.

“I know a lot, Big Bear,” she said, with
a sharp sigh.

Merefleet was silent. His thoughts had gone back
to the previous night. He was surprised when
she suddenly alluded to the episode.

“There’s that man Ralph Warrender,”
she said. “I guess the woman that’s
married him thinks he’s A1 and gilt-edged now,
poor soul. But he’s just a miserable patchwork
mummy really, and there isn’t any white in him—­no,
not a speck.”

She spoke with such intense, even violent bitterness
that Merefleet was utterly astonished. He stood
gravely contemplating her flushed, upturned face.

“What has he done to make you say that, I wonder?”
he said.

“Nothing to me,” she answered quickly.
“Nothing at all to me. But I used to know
his first wife. She was a sort of friend of mine.
They used to call her the loveliest woman in U.S.,
Mr. Merefleet. And she belonged to that fiend.”

They began to walk towards the boats through the shifting
shingle. Merefleet had nothing to say. There
was something in her passionate speech that disturbed
him vaguely. She spoke as one whose most sacred
personal interests had once been at stake.

“Lucky for her she’s dead, Big Bear,”
she said presently, with a side-glance at him.
“I’ve never regretted any of my friends
less than Mrs. Ralph Warrender. Oh, she was real
miserable. I’ve seen her with diamonds
piled high in her hair and her face all shining with
smiles. And I’ve known all the time that
her heart was broken. And when I heard that she
was dead, do you know, I was glad—­yes, thankful.
And I guess Warrender wasn’t sorry. For
she hated him.”

“I never cared for Warrender,” said Merefleet.
“But I always took him for a gentleman.”

She laughed at his words with a gaiety that jarred
upon him. “Do you know, Big Bear,”
she said, “I think they must have forgotten to
teach you your ABC when you went to school? You’re
such an innocent.”

Merefleet tramped by her side in silence. There
was something in him that shrank when she spoke in
this vein.

But quite suddenly her tone changed. She spoke
very gently. “Still, it’s better
to know too little than too much,” she said.
“And oh, Big Bear, I know such a lot.”

Merefleet looked at her sharply and surprised an expression
on her face which he did not easily forget.

Page 133

He knew in that moment that this woman had suffered,
and his heart gave a wild, tumultuous throb.
From that moment he also knew that she had taken his
heart by storm.

CHAPTER XI

Half-an-hour later they were out on the open sea beyond
the harbour in a cockleshell even frailer than Quiller’s
little craft which they had not been able to secure.

The sea was very quiet, only broken by an occasional
long swell that drove them southward like driftwood.
Merefleet, who had been persuaded to quit the harbour
against his better judgment, was not greatly disturbed
by this fact. He did not anticipate any difficulty
in returning. A little extra labour was the worst
he expected, for he knew that a southward course would
bring him into no awkward currents. Away to the
eastward he was aware of treacherous streams and shoals.
But he had no intention of going in that direction,
and Mab, who steered, knew the water well.

There was no sun, a circumstance which Mab deplored,
but for which Merefleet was profoundly grateful.

“You’re not nearly so lazy as you used
to be,” she said to him approvingly, as he rested
his oars after a long pull.

“No,” said Merefleet. “I am
beginning to see the error of my ways.”

“I’m real glad to hear you say so,”
she said heartily. “And I want to tell
you, Big Bear—­that as I’m never going
to New York again, I’ve decided to be an Englishwoman.
And you’ve got to help me.”

Merefleet looked at her with undisguised appreciation,
but he shook his head at her words. She was marvellous;
she was inimitable; she was unique. She would
never, never be English. His gesture said as much.
But she was not discouraged.

They were drifting in long sweeps towards the south.
Imperceptibly also the distance was widening between
the boat and the shore. The wind was veering
to the west.

“My! Look at that oar!” Mab suddenly
exclaimed.

Merefleet started at the note of dismay in her tone.
He had shipped his oars. They were the only ones
that had been provided. He glanced hastily at
the oar Mab indicated. It had been broken and
roughly spliced together. The wood that had been
used for the splicing was rotten, and the friction
in the rowlocks had almost worn it through. Merefleet
examined it in silence.

The girl’s voice, high, with a quiver in it
that might have stood for either laughter or consternation,
broke in on him.

“Well,” she said, “I guess we’re
in the suds this time, Big Bear; and no mistake about
it.”

Merefleet glanced at her helplessly. He did not
think she realised the gravity of the situation, but
something in the little smile that twitched her lips
undeceived him.

Page 134

“The sea was full of boats a little while ago,”
he said. “They have probably gone in for
the lunch hour. But they will be out again presently.
We shall have to drift about for a while and then run
up a distress signal. It will be all right.”

She nodded to him and laughed.

“Splendid, Big Bear! You talk like an oracle.
I guess we’ll run up my red parasol on the end
of an oar for a danger sign. Bert could see that
from the terrace.” She glanced shorewards
as she spoke, and he saw her face change momentarily.
“Why,” she said quickly, “I thought
we were close in. What’s happened?”

Merefleet looked round with sullen perception of a
difficult situation.

“The wind is blowing off shore,” he explained.
“It was north when we started. But it has
gone round to the west. It will be all right,
you know. We can’t drift very far in an
hour.”

But he did not speak with conviction. The sea
tumbled all around them, a mighty grey waste.
And the shore seemed very far away. A dismal outlook
in truth. Moreover it was beginning to rain.

Mab sheltered herself under her sunshade and began
to laugh. “It’s just skittles to
what it might be,” she said consolingly.

But Merefleet did not respond. He knew that the
wind was rising with every second, and already the
little boat tipped and tossed with perilous buoyancy.

Mab still held the rudder-lines. She sat in the
stern, a serene and smiling vision, while Merefleet
toiled with one oar to counteract the growing strength
of the off-shore wind. But she very soon put down
her sunshade, and he saw that she must speedily be
drenched to the skin. For the rain was heavy,
drifting over the water in thick, grey gusts.
They were being driven steadily eastwards out to sea.

“I don’t think my steering makes much
difference, Big Bear,” she said, after a long
silence.

“No,” said Merefleet. “It would
take all the strength of two rowers to make headway
against this wind.”

He shipped his oar with the words and began to take
off his coat. Mab watched him with some wonder.
He was seated on the thwart nearest to her. He
stooped forward at length very cautiously and, taking
the rudder-lines from her, made them fast.

“Now get into this!” he said. “Mind
you don’t upset the boat!”

She stared at him for one speechless second.
Then:

“No, I won’t, Big Bear,” she declared
emphatically. “Put it on again at once!
Do you suppose I’ll sit here in your coat while
you shiver in nothing but flannels?”

“Do as I say!” said Merefleet, with a
grim hardening of the jaw.

And quite meekly she obeyed. There was something
about him that inspired her with awe at that moment.
She felt as if she had run against some obstacle in
the dark.

The rain began to beat down in great, shifting clouds.
The sea grew higher at every moment. Flecks of
white gleamed here and there on all sides. The
boat was dancing like a cork.

Page 135

Mab sat in growing terror with her eyes on the roaring
turmoil. The minutes crawled by like hours.
At length she turned to look shorewards for the boats.
A driving, blinding mist of rain beat into her face.
She saw naught besides. And suddenly her courage
failed her. “Big Bear!” she cried
wildly. “What shall we do? I’m
so frightened.”

He heard her through the storm. He was still
sitting on the middle thwart facing her. He moved,
bending towards her.

“Come to me here!” he said. “It
will be safer.”

She crept to his outstretched arm with a sense of
going into refuge. Merefleet helped her over
the thwart. There was a torn piece of sailcloth
in the bottom of the boat. He drew her down on
to it and turned round himself so that his back was
towards the storm. He was thus able to shelter
her in some measure from the full fury of the blast.

Mab shrank against him, terrified and quivering.

“It looks so angry,” she said.

“Don’t be afraid!” said Merefleet.

And he put his arms about her and held her close to
him as if she had been a little child afraid of the
dark.

CHAPTER XII

No pleasure-boats or craft of any sort put out from
Silverstrand that afternoon. The wind eventually
blew away the clouds and revealed a foaming, sunlit
sea. But the waves were immense at high tide,
and the fishermen muttered among themselves and stared
darkly out over the mighty breakers.

It was known among them that a boat had put out to
sea in the morning and had not returned before the
rising of the gale. There were heavy hearts in
Old Silverstrand that day. But to launch another
boat to search for the missing one was out of the
question. The great seas that came hurling into
the little fishing-harbour were sufficient proof of
that, even to the most inexperienced landsman.

Seton, learning the news when lunch was half over,
rushed off to New Silverstrand in the hope that the
boat might have been driven in that direction by the
strong current. But nothing had been seen from
there of the missing craft, and though he traversed
the entire distance by way of the cliffs, he saw nothing
throughout his walk but flecks of foam here and there
over the tumbling expanse of water.

He returned an hour or so later, reaching Old Silverstrand
by five. But nothing had been heard there.
The fishermen shook their heads when he questioned
them. It was plain that they had given up hope.

Seton raged up and down the quay in impotent agony
of mind. The off-shore wind continued for some
hours. There was not the smallest doubt that
the boat had been driven out to sea, unless—­a
still more awful possibility—­she had been
swamped and sunk long ago. As darkness fell,
the gale at length abated, and Quiller the younger
approached Seton.

“Tell you what, sir,” he said. “There’s
a cruiser been up and down a matter of ten miles out.
Me and my mates will put out at daybreak and see if
we can get within hail of her. There’s the
light-ship, too, off Morden’s Shoal. ’Tain’t
likely as a boat could have slipped between ’em
without being seen. For if she was just drifting,
you know, sir, she wouldn’t go very fast.”

Page 136

“All right,” said Seton. “And
thanks! I’ll go with you in the morning.”

Quiller lingered, though there was dismissal in the
tone.

“Go in and get a rest, sir!” he said persuasively.
“There ain’t no good in your wearing yourself
out here. You can’t do nothing, sir, except
pray for a calm sea. Given that, we’ll
start with the light.”

“Very well,” said Seton, and turned away.
He knew that the man spoke sense and he put pressure
on himself to behave rationally. Nevertheless,
he spent the greater part of the night in a fever of
restlessness which no strength of will could subdue;
and he was down on the quay long before the first
faint gleam of light shot glimmering over the quiet
water.

* * * *
*

It was during those first wonderful moments of a new
day that Mab woke up with a start shivering, and stretched
out her arms with a cry of wonder.

Hours before, Merefleet had persuaded her to try to
rest, and she had fallen asleep with her head against
his knee, soothed by the calm that at length succeeded
the storm. He had watched over her with grim endurance
throughout the night, and not once had he seen a light
or any other object to raise his hopes.

They were out of sight of land; alone on the dumb
waste. He had not the smallest notion as to how
far out to sea the boat had drifted. Only he
fancied that they had been driven out of the immediate
track of steamers, and in the great emptiness around
him he saw no means of escape from the fate that seemed
to dog them.

The boat had lived miraculously, it seemed to him,
through the awful storm of the day. Tossed ruthlessly
and aimlessly to and fro, drenched to the skin, hungry
and forlorn, he and the woman who was to him the very
desire of life, had gone through the peril of deep
waters. Merefleet was beginning to wonder why
they had thus escaped. It seemed to him but a
needless prolonging of an agony already long drawn
out.

Nevertheless there was nothing of despair in his face
as he stooped over the girl who was crouching at his
feet.

“Glad you have been able to sleep,” he
said gently. “Don’t get up! There
is no necessity if you are fairly comfortable.”

She smiled up at him with the ready confidence of
a child and raised herself a little.

“Still watching, Big Bear?” she said.

“Yes,” said Merefleet.

His tone told her that he had seen nothing. She
lay still for a few moments, then slowly turned her
face towards the east. A deep pink glow was rising
in the sky. There was a rosy dusk on the sea about
them.

“My!” said Mab in a soft whisper.
“Isn’t that lovely?”

Merefleet said nothing. He was watching her beautiful
face with a great hunger in his heart.

Mab was also silent for a while. Presently she
turned her face up to his.

“The Gate of Heaven,” she said in a whisper.
“Isn’t it fine?”

Page 137

He did not speak.

She lifted a hand that felt like an icicle and slipped
it into his.

“I guess we shall do this journey together,
Big Bear,” she said. “I’m real
sorry I made you come if you didn’t want to.”

“You needn’t be sorry,” said Merefleet,
with a huskiness he could not have accounted for.

“No?” she said, with a curious little
thrill in her voice. “It’s real handsome
of you, Big Bear. Because—­you know—­I
ought to have died more than a year ago. But
you are different. You have your life to live.”

Merefleet’s hand closed tightly upon hers.

“Don’t talk like that, child!” he
said. “Heaven knows your life is worth
more than mine.”

Mab leant her elbow on his knee and gazed thoughtfully
over the far expanse of water. Merefleet knew
that she was faint and exhausted, though she uttered
no complaint.

“Shall I tell you a secret, Big Bear?”
she said, in the hushed tone of one on the threshold
of a sacred place. “I ended my life long
ago. I was very miserable and Death came and
offered me refuge. And it was such a safe hiding-place.
I knew no one would look for me there. Only lately
I have come to see that what I did was wicked.
I think you helped to make me see, Big Bear.
You’re so honest. And then a dreadful thing
happened. Have you ever spoilt anyone’s
life besides your own, I wonder? I have.
That is why I have got to die. There is no place
left for me. I gave it up. And there is
someone else there now.”

She stopped. Merefleet was bending over her with
that in his face that might have been the reflected
glory of the growing day. Mab saw it, and stretched
up her other hand with a startled sob.

“Big Bear, forgive me!” she whispered.
“I—­didn’t—­know.”

A moment later she was lying on his breast, and the
first golden shimmer of the morning had risen above
the sea.

“I shan’t mind dying now,” Mab whispered,
a little later. “I was real frightened
yesterday. But now—­do you know?—­I’m
glad—­glad. It’s just like sailing
into Paradise, isn’t it? Are any of your
people there, Big Bear?”

“Perhaps,” said Merefleet.

“Won’t you be pleased to see them?”
she said, with a touch of wonder at the indifference
in his tone.

“I want nothing but you, my darling,”
he said, and his lips were on her hair.

He felt her fingers close upon his own.

“I guess it won’t matter in Heaven,”
she said, as though trying to convince herself of
something. “My dear, shall I tell you something?
I love you with all my heart. I never knew it
till to-day. And if we weren’t so near
Heaven I reckon I couldn’t ever have told you.”

Some time later she began to talk in a dreamy way
of the Great Haven whither they were drifting.
The sun was high by then and beat in a wonderful,
dazzling glory on the pathless waters.

Page 138

“There’s no sun There,” said Mab.
“But I guess it will be very bright. And
there will be crowds and crowds along the Shore to
see us come into Port. And I’ll see my
little baby among them. I told you about him,
Big Bear. Finest little chap in New York City.
He’ll be holding out his arms to me, just like
he used. Ah! I can almost see him now.
Look at his curls. Aren’t they fine?
And his little angel face. There isn’t anyone
like him, I guess. Everybody said he was the cutest
baby in U.S. Coming, darling! Coming!”

Mab’s hands slackened from Merefleet’s
clasp, and suddenly she stretched out her arms to
the sky. The holiest of all earthly raptures was
on her face.

Then with a sharp sigh she came to herself and turned
back to Merefleet. A piteous little smile hovered
about her quivering lips.

CHAPTER XIII

Before the sun set they were sighted by the cruiser
returning to her anchorage outside the little fishing-harbour.
Mab, worn out by hunger and exposure, had slipped
back to her former position in the bottom of the boat.
She was half asleep and seemed dazed when Merefleet
told her of their approaching deliverance. But
she clung fast to him when a boat from the cruiser
came alongside; and he lifted her into it himself.

“By Jove, sir, you’ve had a bad time!”
said a young officer in the boat.

“Thirty hours,” said Merefleet briefly.

He kept his arm about the girl, though his brain swam
dizzily. And Mab, consciously or unconsciously,
held his hand in a tight clasp.

Merefleet felt as if she were definitely removed out
of his reach when she was lifted from his hold at
length, and the impression remained with him after
he gained the cruiser’s deck. He met with
most courteous solicitude on all sides and was soon
on the high-road to recovery.

Later in the evening, when Mab also was sufficiently
restored to appear on deck, the cruiser steamed into
Silverstrand Harbour, and the two voyagers were landed
by one of her boats, in the midst of great rejoicing
on the quay.

Seton, who had long since returned from a fruitless
search for tidings, was among the crowd of spectators.
He said little by way of greeting, and there was considerable
strain apparent in his manner towards Merefleet.
He hurried his cousin back to the hotel with a haste
not wholly bred of the moment’s expediency.
Merefleet followed at a more leisurely pace.
He made no attempt to join them, however. He had
done his part. There remained no more to do.
With a heavy sense of irrevocable loss he went to
bed and slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion for
many hours.

The adventure was over. It had ended with a tameness
that gave it an almost commonplace aspect. But
Merefleet’s resolution was of stout manufacture.

Page 139

The consequences of that night and day of peril involved
his whole future. Merefleet recognised this and
resolved to act forthwith, in defiance of Seton or
any other obstacle. He did not realise till later
that there was opposed to him a strength which even
his will was powerless to overcome. He did not
even take the possibility of this into consideration.

He was very sure of himself and confident of success
when he descended late on the following morning to
a solitary breakfast—­sure of himself, sure
of the smile of that fickle goddess Fortune—­sure,
thrice sure, of the woman he loved.

And he watched for her coming with a rapture that
deprived him of his appetite.

But Mab did not come.

Instead, Herbert Seton presently strolled into the
room, greeted him, and paused by his table.

“Be good enough to join me on the terrace presently,
will you?” he said abruptly.

And Merefleet nodded with a chill sense of foreboding.
But his resolution was unalterable. This young
man should not, he was determined, by any means cheat
him now of his heart’s desire. Matters had
gone too far for that. He followed Seton almost
at once and found him in a quiet corner, smoking.
Merefleet sat down beside him and also began to smoke.
There was a touch of hostility about Seton that he
was determined to ignore.

“Well,” said Seton at length, with characteristic
bluntness, “so you have done it in spite of
my warning the other night.”

Merefleet looked at him. Was he expected to render
an account of his doings to this man who was at least
ten years his junior, he wondered, with faint amusement?

Seton went on with strong indignation.

“I told you in the first place not to be too
intimate with her. I told you again two nights
ago that she was not free to accept any man’s
attentions. But you went on. And you have
made her miserable simply for the gratification of
your own unreasonable fancy. Do you call that
manly behaviour, I wonder?”

Merefleet sat in absolute silence for several seconds.
Finally he wheeled round in his chair and faced Seton.

“If I were you,” he said quietly, “I
should postpone this interview for half-an-hour.
I think you may possibly regret it if you don’t.”

Seton tossed away a half-smoked cigarette and rose.

“In half-an-hour,” he said, “I shall
have left this place, and my cousin with me.
I asked to speak to you because I detest all underhand
dealings. You apparently have not the same scruples.”

Merefleet also rose.

“You will apologise for that,” he said,
in a tone of conviction. “I don’t
question your motives, but to fetch me out here and
then insult me was not a wise proceeding on your part.”

Seton’s hand clenched involuntarily. But
he had put himself in the wrong, and he knew it.

“Very well,” he said at length, with a
shrug. “I apologise for the expression.
But my opinion of you remains unaltered.”

Page 140

Merefleet ignored the qualification. He was bent
on something more important than the satisfaction
of his own personal honour. “And now,”
he said, with deliberate purpose, “I am going
to have a private interview with your cousin.”

Seton started.

“You are going to do nothing of the sort,”
he said instantly.

Merefleet looked him over gravely.

“Look here, Seton!” he said. “You’re
making a fool of yourself. Take a friend’s
advice—­don’t!”

Seton choked back his anger with a great effort.
In spite of this there was a passionate ring in his
voice when he spoke that betrayed the exceeding precariousness
of his self-control.

“I can’t let you see her,” he said.
“She is upset enough already. I have promised
her that she shall not be worried.”

“Have you promised her to keep me from speaking
to her?” Merefleet grimly enquired.

“No.” Seton spoke reluctantly.

“Then do this,” said Merefleet. “Go
to her and ask her if she will see me alone.
If she says ‘No,’ I give you my word that
I will leave this place and trouble neither of you
any further.”

Seton seemed to hesitate, but Merefleet was sure of
his acquiescence. After a pause of several seconds
he fulfilled his expectations and went.

Merefleet sat down again and waited. Seton returned
heavy-footed.

“She will see you,” he said curtly.
“You will find her in the billiard-room.”

“Alone?” said Merefleet, rising.

“Alone.”

And Merefleet walked away.

CHAPTER XIV

He found her sitting in a great arm-chair at one end
of the empty billiard-room. She did not rise
to meet him. He thought she looked tired out
and frightened.

He went to her and stooped over her, taking her hands.
She did not resist him, but neither did she welcome.
Her lips were quivering painfully.

“What have I done that you should run away from
me?” Merefleet asked her very gently.

She shook her head with a helpless gesture.

“Mr. Merefleet,” she whispered, “try—­try
not to be cross any! I’m afraid I’ve
made a big mistake.”

“My dear, we all make them,” Merefleet
said with grave kindliness.

“I know,” she faltered. “I
know. But mine was a real bad one.”

“Never mind, child!” he said tenderly.
“Why should you tell me?”

She threw a swift look into his face. She was
trembling violently.

“Big Bear,” she cried with sudden vehemence,
“you don’t understand.”

He knelt down beside her and put his arm about her.

“Listen to me, my darling,” he said, and
she shrank at the deep thrill in his voice. “To
me you are all that is beautiful and good and holy.
I do not want to know what lies behind you. I
know you have had trouble. But it is over.
You may have made mistakes. But they are over,
too. Tell me nothing! Leave the past alone!
Only give me your present and your future. I
shall be quite content.”

Page 141

He paused. She was shivering within his encircling
arm. He could hear her breath coming and going
very quickly.

“You love me, darling,” he said.
“And is it necessary for me to tell you that
I worship you as no one ever has worshipped you before?”

He paused again. But Mab did not speak.
The beautiful face was working painfully. Her
hands were tightly clasped in his.

“Child, what is it?” Merefleet said, conscious
of a hidden barrier between them. “Can’t
you trust yourself to me? Is that it? Are
you afraid of me? You didn’t shrink from
me yesterday.”

She bowed her head. Yesterday she had wept in
his arms. But to-day no tears came. Only
a halting whisper, a woman’s cry of sheer weakness.

She heard the change in his tone, and looked up.
She was better able to meet this from him.

“I know,” she said. “And I
guess that was where I went wrong. I ought to
have waited till we were dead. But, you see, I
didn’t know.”

“Then do you tell me you are not free?”
Merefleet said. “Do you mean literally
that? Are you the actual property of another man?”

She shook her head with baffling promptitude.

“I guess I’m just Death’s property,
Big Bear,” she said, with a wistful little smile.
“But he doesn’t seem over-keen on having
me.”

“Stop!” said Merefleet harshly. “I
won’t have you talk like that. It’s
madness. Tell me what you mean!”

“I can’t,” Mab said. “I
can’t tell you. It wouldn’t be fair.
Don’t be angry, Big Bear! It’s just
the price I’ve got to pay. And it’s
no use squirming. I’ve worried it round
and round. But it always comes back to that.
I’m not free. And no one but Bert must ever
know why.”

Merefleet sprang to his feet with an impatience by
no means characteristic of him.

“This is intolerable!” he exclaimed.
“You are wrecking your life for an insane scruple.
Child, listen! Tell me nothing whatever!
Give yourself to me! No one shall ever take you
away again. That I swear. And I will make
you so happy, dear. Only trust me!”

But Mab covered her face as if to shut out a forbidden
sight.

“Big Bear, I mustn’t,” she said,
with a sharp catch in her voice. “I’ve
done very wrong already. But I mustn’t do
this. Indeed I mustn’t. It’s
real good of you. And I shall remember it all
my life. I think you are the most charitable
man I ever met, considering what you must think of
me.”

“Think!” said Merefleet, and there was
a note of deep passion in his voice. “I
don’t think. I want you just as you are,—­just
as you are. Don’t you know yet that I love
you enough for that?”

Mab rose slowly at the words. She was very pale,
and he could see her trembling as she stood.

Page 142

“Big Bear,” she said, “I’ve
got something to say to you. What I told you
yesterday was quite true. And I’m in great
trouble about it. I thought we were going to
Heaven together. That was how I came to say it.
But it was very wicked of me to be so impulsive.
I’ve done other things that were wicked in just
the same way. It’s just my nature.
And p’r’aps you’ll try to forgive
me when you think how I truly meant it. I’m
telling you this because I want you to do something
for me. It’ll be real difficult, Big Bear.
Only you’re so strong.”

She faltered a little and paused to recover herself.
Merefleet was standing close to her. He could
have taken her into his arms. But something held
him back. Moreover he knew the nature of her request
before she uttered it.

“Will you do what I ask you?” she said
suddenly, facing him directly. “Will you,
Big Bear?”

Merefleet did not answer her.

She went on quickly.

“My dear, it’s hard for me, too, though
I’m bad and I deserve to suffer.”

Her voice broke and Merefleet made a convulsive movement
towards her. But he checked himself. And
Mab ended in a choked whisper with an appealing hand
against his breast.

“Just go right away!” she said. “Take
up your life where it was before you met me!
Will you, dear? It—­will make it easier
for me if you will.”

A dead silence followed the low words. Then,
moved by a marvellous influence which worked upon
him irresistibly, Merefleet stooped and put the slight
hand to his lips. He did not understand.
He was as far from reading the riddle as he had been
when he entered. But his love for this woman
conquered his desire. He had thought to win an
empire. He left the room a beaten slave.

CHAPTER XV

Men said that Bernard Merefleet, the gold-king, was
curiously changed when once more he went among them.
Something of the old grimness which had earned for
him his sobriquet yet clung to his manner.
But he was undeniably softer than of yore. There
was an odd gentleness about him. Women said that
he was marvellously improved. Among such as had
known him in New York he became a favourite, little
as he attempted to court favour.

Towards the end of the year he went down to the Midlands
to stay with his friend Perry Clinton. They had
not met for several years, and Clinton, who had married
in the interval, also thought him changed.

“Is it prosperity or adversity that has made
you so tame, dear fellow?” he asked him, as
they sat together over dessert one night.

“Adversity,” said Merefleet, smiling faintly.
“I’m getting old, Perry; and there’s
no one to take care of me. And I find that money
is vanity.”

Clinton understood.

“Better go round the world,” he said.
“That’s the best cure for that.”

But Merefleet shook his head.

Page 143

“It’s my own fault,” he said presently.
“I’ve chucked away my life to the gold-demon.
And now there is nothing left to me. You were
wise in your generation. You may thank your stars,
Perry, that when I wanted you to join me, you had
the sense to refuse. When I heard you were married
I called you a fool. But—­I know better
now.”

He paused. He had been speaking with a force
that was almost passionate. When he continued
his tone had changed.

“That is why you find me a trifle less surly
than I used to be,” he said. “I used
to hate my fellow-creatures. And now I would give
all my money in exchange for a few disinterested friends.
I’m sick of my lonely life. But for all
that, I shall live and die alone.”

“You make too much of it,” said Clinton.

“Perhaps. But you can’t expect a
man who has been into Paradise to be exactly happy
when he is thrust outside.”

Clinton took up the evening paper without comment.
Merefleet had never before spoken so openly to him.
He realised that the man’s loneliness must oppress
him heavily indeed thus to master his reserve.

“What news?” said Merefleet, after a pause.

“Nothing,” said Clinton. “Plague
on the Continent. Railway mishap on the Great
Northern. Another American Disaster.”

“What’s that?” said Merefleet with
a touch of interest.

“Electric car accident. Ralph Warrender
among the victims.”

“Warrender! What! Is he dead?”

“Yes. Killed instantaneously. Did
you know him?”

“I have met him in business. I wasn’t
intimate with him.”

“Isn’t he the man whose first wife was
killed in a railway accident?” said Clinton
reflectively, glad to have diverted Merefleet’s
thoughts. “I thought so. I met her
once and was so smitten with her that I purchased
her portrait forthwith. The most marvellous woman’s
face I ever saw. The man I got it from spoke
of her with the most appalling enthusiasm. ’Mab
Warrender!’ he said. ’If she is not
the loveliest woman in U.S., I guess the next one
would strike us blind.’ Here! I’ll
show it you. Netta wants me to frame it.”

Clinton got up and took a book from a cupboard.
Merefleet was watching him with strained eyes.
His heart was thumping as if it would choke him.
He rose as Clinton laid the picture before him, and
steadied himself unconsciously by his friend’s
shoulder.

But Merefleet hung over the picture with fascinated
eyes. And his answer came with a curiously strained
laugh, that somehow rang exultant.

“Yes, a friend of mine, old chap,” he
said. “It’s a wonderful face, isn’t
it? But it doesn’t do her justice.
I shouldn’t frame it if I were you.”

CHAPTER XVI

Page 144

“Isn’t he a monster?” said Mab,
as she sat before the kitchen fire in Quiller’s
humble dwelling with Mrs. Quiller’s three months’
old baby in her arms. “I guess he’d
fetch a prize at a baby show, Mrs. Quiller. Isn’t
he just too knowing for anything?”

“He’s the best of the bunch, miss,”
said Mrs. Quiller proudly. “The other eight,
they weren’t nothing special. But this one,
he be a beauty, though it ain’t me as should
say it. I’m sure it’s very good of
you, miss, to spend the time you do over him.
He’d be an ungrateful little rogue if he didn’t
get on.”

“It’s real kind of you to make me welcome,”
Mab said, with her cheek against the baby’s
head, “I don’t know what I’d do if
you didn’t.”

“Ah! Poor dear! You must be lonesome
now the gentleman’s gone,” said Mrs. Quiller
commiseratingly.

“Oh, no,” said Mab lightly. “Not
so very. I couldn’t ask my cousin to give
up all his time to me you know. Besides, he would
come to see me at any time if I really wanted him.”

“Ah!” Mrs. Quiller shook her head.
“But it ain’t the same. You wants
a home of your own, my dear. That’s what
it is. What’s become of t’other gentleman
what used to be down here?”

Mab almost laughed at the artlessness of this query.

“Mr. Merefleet, you mean? I don’t
know. I guess he’s making some more money.”

At this point old Quiller, who had been toddling about
in the November sunshine outside, pushed open the
door in a state of breathless excitement.

“Here’s Master Bernard coming, missie,”
he announced.

Mab started to her feet, her face in a sudden, marvellous
glow.

“There now!” said Mrs. Quiller, relieving
her of her precious burden. “Who’d
have thought it? You’d better go and talk
to him.”

And Mab stepped out into the soft sunshine. It
fell around her in a flood and dazzled her. She
stood quite still and waited, till out of the brilliance
someone came to her and took her hand. The waves
were dashing loudly on the shore. The south wind
raced by with a warm rushing. The whole world
seemed to laugh. She closed her eyes and laughed
with it.

“Is it you, Big Bear?” she said.

And Merefleet’s voice answered her.

“Yes,” it said. “I have come
for you in earnest this time. You won’t
send me away again?”

Mab lifted her face with a glad smile.

“I guess there’s no need,” she said.
“My dear, I’ll come now.”

And they went away together in the sunlight.

* * * *
*

“And now I guess I’ll tell you the story
of the first Mrs. Ralph Warrender,” said Mab,
some time later. “I won’t say anything
about him, because he’s dead, and if you can’t
speak well of the dead,—­well it’s
better not to speak at all. But she was miserable
with him. And after her baby died—­it
just wasn’t endurable. Then came that railway
accident, and she was in it. There were a lot
of folks killed, burnt to death most of them.
But she escaped, and then the thought came to her just
to lie low for a bit and let him think she was dead.

Page 145

“Oh, it was a real wicked thing to do.
But she was nearly demented with trouble. And
she did it. She managed to get away, too, in spite
of her lovely face. An old negro woman helped
her. And she came to England and went to a cousin
of hers who had been good to her, whom she knew she
could trust—­just a plain, square-jawed Englishman,
Big Bear, like you in some respects—­not
smart, oh no—­only strong as iron. And
he kept her secret, though he didn’t like it
a bit. And he gave her some money of hers that
he had inherited, to live on. Which was funny,
wasn’t it?”

Mab paused to laugh.

“And then another man came along, a great, surly,
fogheaded Englishman, who made love to her till she
was nearly driven crazy. For though Warrender
had married again before she could stop him, she wasn’t
free. But she couldn’t tell him so for
the other woman’s sake. It doesn’t
matter now. It was a dreadful tangle once.
And she felt real bad about it. But it’s
come out quite simply. And no one will ever know.

“Now, I’ll tell you a secret, Big Bear,
about the woman you know of. You must put your
head down for I’ll have to whisper. That’s
the way. Now! She’s just madly in
love with you, Big Bear. And she is quite, quite
free to tell you so. There! And I reckon
she’s not Death’s property any more.
She’s just—­yours.”

The narrative ended in Merefleet’s arms.

* * * *
*

A few weeks later Quiller the younger looked up from
a newspaper with a grin.

And old Quiller looked up with a gleam of intelligence
on his wrinkled face.

“Why!” he said, with slow triumph.
“If that ain’t what I persuaded him for
to do, long, long ago! He’s a sensible lad,
is Master Bernard.”

A measure of approval which Merefleet would doubtless
have appreciated.

* * * *
*

The Sacrifice

CHAPTER I

It had been a hot day at the Law Courts, but a faint
breeze had sprung up with the later hours, blowing
softly over the river. It caught the tassel of
the blind by which Field sat and tapped it against
the window-frame, at first gently like a child at
play, then with gathering force and insistence till
at last he looked up with a frown and rose to fasten
it back.

It was growing late. The rose of the afterglow
lay upon the water, tipping the silvery ripples with
soft colour. It was a magic night. But the
wonder of it did not apparently reach him. A table
littered with papers stood in front of him bearing
a portable electric lamp. He was obviously too
engrossed to think of exterior things.

For a space he sat again in silence by the open window,
only the faint rustling of the lace curtain being
audible. His somewhat hard, clean-shaven face
was bent over his work with rigid concentration.
His eyelids scarcely stirred.

Page 146

Then again there came a tapping, this time at the
door. The frown returned to his face. He
looked up.

“Well?”

The door opened. A small, sharp-faced boy poked
in his head. “A lady to see you, sir.”

“What?” said Field. His frown deepened.
“I can’t see any one. I told you
so.”

“Says she won’t go away till she’s
seen you, sir,” returned the boy glibly.
“Can’t get her to budge, sir.”

“Oh, tell her—­” said Field,
and stopped as if arrested by a sudden thought.
“Who is it?” he asked.

A grin so brief that it might have been a mere twitch
of the features passed over the boy’s face.

“Wouldn’t give no name, sir. But
she’s a nob of some sort,” he said.
“Got a shiny satin dress on under her cloak.”

Field’s eyes went for a moment to his littered
papers. Then he picked up a newspaper from a
chair and threw it over them.

“Show her in!” he said briefly.

He got up with the words, and stood with his back
to the window, watching the half-open door.

There came a slight rustle in the passage outside.
The small boy reappeared and threw the door wide with
a flourish. A woman in a dark cloak and hat with
a thick veil over her face entered.

The door closed behind her. Field stood motionless.
She advanced with slight hesitation.

“I hope you will forgive me,” she said,
“for intruding upon you.”

Her voice was rich and deep. It held a throb
of nervousness. Field came deliberately forward.

“I presume I can be of use to you,” he
said.

His tone was dry. There was scant encouragement
about him as he drew forward a chair.

She hesitated momentarily before accepting it, but
finally sat down with a gesture that seemed to indicate
physical weakness of some sort.

“Yes, I want your help,” she said.

Field said nothing. His face was the face of
the trained man of law. It expressed naught beyond
a steady, impersonal attention.

He drew up another chair and seated himself facing
her.

She looked at him through her veil for several seconds
in silence. Finally, with manifest effort, she
spoke.

“It was so good of you to admit me—­especially
not knowing who I was. You recognise me now,
of course? I am Lady Violet Calcott.”

“I should recognise you more easily,”
he said in his emotionless voice, “if you would
be good enough to put up your veil.”

His tone was perfectly quiet and courteous, yet she
made a rapid movement to comply, as if he had definitely
required it of her. She threw back the obscuring
veil and showed him the face of one of the most beautiful
women in London.

There was an instant’s pause before he said.

“Yes, I recognise you, of course. And—­you
wanted to consult me?”

“No!” She leaned forward in her chair
with white hands clasped. “I wanted to
beg you to tell me—­why you have refused
to undertake Burleigh Wentworth’s defence!”

Page 147

She spoke with a breathless intensity. Her wonderful
eyes were lifted to his—­eyes that had dazzled
half London, but Field only looked down into them
as he might have regarded one of his legal documents.
A slight, peculiar smile just touched his lips as
he made reply.

“I have no objection to telling you, Lady Violet.
He is guilty. That is why.”

“Ah!” It was a sound like the snapped
string of an instrument. Her fingers gripped
each other. “So you think that too!
Indeed—­indeed, you are wrong! But—­is
that your only reason?”

“Isn’t it a sufficient one?” he
said.

Her fingers writhed and strained against each other.
“Do you mean that it is—­against your
principles?” she said.

“To defend a guilty man?” questioned the
barrister slowly.

She nodded two or three times as if for the moment
utterance were beyond her.

Field’s eyes had not stirred from her face,
yet still they had that legal look as if he searched
for some hidden information.

“No,” he said finally. “It
is not entirely a matter of principle. As you
are aware, I have achieved a certain reputation.
And I value it.”

She made a quick movement that was almost convulsive.

“But you would not injure your reputation.
You would only enhance it,” she said, speaking
very rapidly as if some obstruction to speech had very
suddenly been removed. “You are practically
on the top of the wave. You would succeed where
another man would fail. And indeed—­oh,
indeed he is innocent! He must be innocent!
Things look black against him. But he can be
saved somehow. And you could save him—­if
you would. Think what the awful disgrace would
mean to him—­if he were convicted! And
he doesn’t deserve it. I assure you he
doesn’t deserve it. Ah, how shall I persuade
you of that?” Her voice quivered upon a note
of despair. “Surely you are human!
There must be some means of moving you. You can’t
want to see an innocent man go under!”

The beautiful eyes were blurred with tears as she
looked at him. She caught back a piteous sob.
The cloak had fallen from about her shoulders.
They gleamed with an exquisite whiteness.

The man’s look still rested upon her with unflickering
directness. Again that peculiar smile hovered
about his grim mouth.

“Yes, I am human,” he said, after a pause.
“I do not esteem myself as above temptation.
As you probably know, I am a self-made man, of very
ordinary extraction. But—­I do not feel
tempted to take up Burleigh Wentworth’s defence.
I am sorry if that fact should cause you any disappointment.
I do not see why it should. There are plenty of
other men—­abler than I am—­who
would, I am sure, be charmed to oblige Lady Violet
Calcott or any of her friends.”

“That is not so,” she broke in rapidly.
“You know that is not so. You know that
your genius has placed you in what is really a unique
position. Your name in itself is almost a mascot.
You know quite well that you carry all before you
with your eloquence. If—­if you couldn’t
get him acquitted, you could get him lenient treatment.
You could save his life from utter ruin.”

Page 148

She clasped and unclasped her hands in nervous excitement.
Her face was piteous in its strain and pathos.

And still Field looked unmoved upon her distress.

“I am afraid I can’t help you,”
he said. “My eloquence would need a very
strong incentive in such a case as this to balance
my lack of sympathy.”

“What do you mean by—­incentive?”
she said, her voice very low. “I will do
anything—­anything in my power—­to
induce you to change your mind. I never lost
hope until—­I heard you had refused to defend
him. Surely—­surely—­there
is some means of persuading you left!”

For the first time his smile was openly cynical.

“Don’t offer me money, please!”
he said.

She flushed vividly, hotly.

“Mr. Field! I shouldn’t dream of
it!”

“No?” he said. “But it was
more than a dream with you when you first entered
this room.”

She dropped her eyes from his.

“I—­didn’t—­realise—­”
she said in confusion.

He bent forward slightly. It was an attitude
well known at the Law Courts. “Didn’t
realise—­” he repeated in his quiet,
insistent fashion.

She met his look again—­against her will.

“I didn’t realise what sort of man I had
to deal with,” she said.

“Ah!” said Field. “And now?”

She shrank a little. There was something intolerably
keen in his calm utterance.

“I didn’t do it,” she said rather
breathlessly. “Please remember that!”

“I do,” he said.

But yet his look racked her. She threw out her
hands with a sudden, desperate gesture and rose.

“Oh, are you quite without feeling? What
can I appeal to? Does position mean a great deal
to you? If so, my brother is very influential,
and I have influential friends. I will do anything—­anything
in my power. Tell me what—­incentive
you want!”

Field rose also. They stood face to face—­the
self-made man and the girl who could trace her descent
from a Norman baron. He was broad-built, grim,
determined. She was slender, pale, and proud.

For a moment he did not speak. Then, as her eyes
questioned him, he turned suddenly to a mirror over
the mantelpiece behind him and showed her herself
in her unveiled beauty.

“Lady Violet,” he said, and his speech
had a steely, cutting quality, “you came into
this room to bribe me to defend a man whom I believe
to be a criminal from the consequences of his crime.
And when you found I was not to be so easily bought
as you imagined, you asked me if I were human.
I replied to you that I was human, and not above temptation.
Since then you have been trying—­very hard—­to
find a means to tempt me. But—­so far—­you
have overlooked the most obvious means of all.
You have told me twice over that you will do anything
in your power. Do you mean—­literally—­that?”

He was addressing the face in the glass, and still
his look was almost brutally emotionless. It
seemed to measure, to appraise. She met it for
a few seconds, and then in spite of herself she flinched.

Page 149

“Will you tell me what you mean?” she
said in a low voice.

He turned round to her again.

“Why did you come here yourself?” he said.
“And at night?”

She was trembling.

“I had to come myself—­as soon as
I knew. I hoped to persuade you.”

“You thought,” he said mercilessly, “that,
however I might treat others,
I could never resist you.”

“I hoped—­to persuade you,”
she said again.

“By—­tempting—­me?”
he said slowly.

She gave a great start. “Mr. Field—­”

He put out a quiet hand, and laid it upon her bare
arm.

“Wait a moment, please! As I said before,
I am not above temptation—­being human.
You take a very personal interest in Burleigh Wentworth,
I think?”

She met his look with quivering eyelids.

“Yes,” she said.

“Are you engaged to him?” he pursued.

She winced in spite of herself.

“No.”

He raised his brows.

“You have refused him, then?”

Her face was burning.

“He hasn’t proposed to me—­yet,”
she said. “Perhaps he never will.”

“I see.” His manner was relentless,
his hold compelling. “I will defend Burleigh
Wentworth,” he said, “upon one condition.”

“What is that?” she whispered.

“That you marry me,” said Percival Field
with his steady eyes upon her face.

She was trembling from head to foot.

“You—­you—­have never seen
me before to-day,” she said.

“Yes, I have seen you,” he said, “several
times. I have known your face and figure by heart
for a very long while. I haven’t had the
time to seek you out. It seems to have been decreed
that you should do that part.”

Was there cynicism in his voice? It seemed so.
Yet his eyes never left her. They held her by
some electric attraction which she was powerless to
break.

She looked at him, white to the lips.

“Are you—­in—­earnest?”
she asked at last.

Again for an instant she saw his faint smile.

“Don’t you know the signs yet?”
he said. “Surely you have had ample opportunity
to learn them!”

A tinge of colour crept beneath her pallor.

“No one ever proposed to me—­like
this before,” she said.

His hand was still upon her arm. It closed with
a slow, remorseless pressure as he made quiet reply
to her previous question.

“Yes. I am in earnest.”

She flinched at last from the gaze of those merciless
eyes.

“You ask the impossible,” she said.

“Then it is all the simpler for you to refuse,”
he rejoined.

Her eyes were upon the hand that held her. Did
he know that its grasp had almost become a grip?
It was by that, and that alone, that she was made
aware of something human—­or was it something
bestial—­behind that legal mask?

Suddenly she straightened herself and faced him.
It cost her all the strength she had.

Page 150

“Mr. Field,” she said, and though her
voice shook she spoke with resolution, “if I
were to consent to this—­extraordinary suggestion;
if I married you—­you would not ask—­or
expect—­more than that?”

“If you consent to marry me,” he said,
“it will be without conditions.”

“Then I cannot consent,” she said.
“Please let me go!”

He released her instantly, and, turning, picked up
her cloak.

But she moved away to the window and stood there with
her back to him, gazing down upon the quiet river.
Its pearly stillness was like a dream. The rush
and roar of London’s many wheels had died to
a monotone.

The man waited behind her in silence. She had
released the blind-cord, and was plucking at it mechanically,
with fingers that trembled.

Suddenly the blast of a siren from a vessel in mid-stream
shattered the stillness. The girl at the window
quivered from head to foot as if it had pierced her.
And then with a sharp movement she turned.

“Mr. Field!” she said, and stopped.

He waited with absolute composure.

She made a small but desperate gesture—­the
gesture of a creature trapped and helpless.

“I—­will do it!” she said in
a voice that was barely audible. “But if—­if
you ever come—­to repent—­don’t
blame me!”

“I shall not repent,” he said.

She passed on rapidly.

“And—­you will do your best—­to
save—­Burleigh Wentworth?”

“I will save him,” said Field.

She paused a moment; then moved towards him, as if
compelled against her will.

He put the cloak around her shoulders, and then, as
she fumbled with it uncertainly, he fastened it himself.

“Your veil?” he said.

She made a blind movement. Her self-control was
nearly gone. With absolute steadiness he drew
it down over her face.

“Have you a conveyance waiting?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He turned to the door. He was in the act of opening
it when she stayed him.

“One moment!” she said.

He stopped at once, standing before her with his level
eyes looking straight at her.

She spoke hurriedly behind her veil.

“Promise me, you will never—­never
let him know—­of this!”

He made a grave bow, his eyes unchangeably upon her.

“Certainly,” he said.

She made an involuntary movement; her hands clenched.
She stood as if she were about to make some further
appeal. But he opened the door and held it for
her, and such was the finality of his action that she
was obliged to pass out.

He followed her into the lift and took her down in
unbroken silence.

A taxi awaited her. He escorted her to it.

“Good night!” he said then.

She hesitated an instant. Then, without speaking,
she gave him her hand. For a moment his fingers
grasped hers.

“You may depend upon me,” he said.

Page 151

She slipped free from his hold. “Thank
you,” she said, her voice very low.

A few seconds later Field sat again at his table by
the window. The wind was blowing in from the
river in rising gusts. The blind-tassel tapped
and tapped, now here, now there, like a trapped creature
seeking frantically for escape. For a space he
sat quite motionless, gazing before him as though
unaware of his surroundings. Then very suddenly
but very quietly he reached out and caught the swaying
thing. A moment he held it, then pulled it to
him and, taking a penknife from the table, grimly,
deliberately, he severed the cord.

The tassel lay in his hand, a silken thing, slightly
frayed, as if convulsive fingers had torn it.
He sat for a while and looked at it. Then, with
that strange smile of his, he laid it away in a drawer.

CHAPTER II

The trial of Burleigh Wentworth for forgery was one
of the sensations of the season. A fashionable
crowd went day after day to the stifling Court to
watch its progress. The man himself, nonchalant,
debonair, bore himself with the instinctive courage
of his race, though whether his bearing would have
been as confident had Percival Field not been at his
back was a question asked by a good many. He was
one of the best-known figures in society, a general
favourite in sporting circles, and universally looked
upon with approval if not admiration wherever he went.
He had the knack of popularity. He came of an
old family, and his rumoured engagement to Lady Violet
Calcott had surprised no one. Lord Culverleigh,
her brother, was known to be his intimate friend, and
the rumour had come already to be regarded as an accomplished
fact when, like a thunder-bolt, had come Wentworth’s
arraignment for forgery.

It had set all London talking. The evidence against
him was far-reaching and overwhelming. After
the first shock no one believed him innocent.
The result of the trial was looked upon before its
commencement as a foregone conclusion until it became
known that Percival Field, the rising man of the day,
had undertaken his defence, and then like the swing
of a weather cock public opinion veered. If Field
defended him, there must be some very strong point
in his favour, men argued. Field was not the sort
to touch anything of a doubtful nature.

The trial lasted for nearly a week. During that
time Lady Violet went day after day to the Court and
sat with her veil down all through the burning hours.
People looked at her curiously, questioning if there
really had been any definite understanding between
the two. Did she really care for the man, or
was it mere curiosity that drew her? No one knew
with any certainty. She wrapped herself in her
reserve like an all-enveloping garment, and even those
who regarded themselves as her nearest friends knew
naught of what she carried in her soul.

Page 152

All through the trial she sat in utter immobility,
sphinx-like, unapproachable, yet listening with tense
attention to all that passed. Field’s handling
of the case was a marvel of legal ingenuity. There
were many who were attracted to the trial by that
alone. He had made his mark, and whatever he
said carried weight. When he came at last to make
his speech for the defence, men and women listened
with bated breath. It was one of the greatest
speeches that the Criminal Court had ever heard.

He flung into it the whole weight of his personality.
He grappled like a giant with the rooted obstacles
that strewed his path, flinging them hither and thither
by sheer force of will. His scorching eloquence
blasted every opposing power, consumed every tangle
of adverse evidence. It was as if he fought a
pitched battle for himself alone. He wrestled
for the mastery rather than appealed for sympathy.

And he won his cause. His scathing attacks, his
magnetism, his ruthless insistence left an indelible
mark upon the minds of the jury—­such a mark
as no subsequent comments from the judge could efface
or even moderate. The verdict returned was unanimous
in spite of a by no means favourable summing-up.
The prisoner was Not Guilty.

At the pronouncement of the verdict there went up
a shout of applause such as that Court had seldom
heard. The prisoner, rather white but still affecting
sublime self-assurance, accepted it with a smile as
a tribute to himself. But it was not really directed
towards him. It was for the man who had defended
him, the man who sat at the table below the dock and
turned over a sheaf of papers with a faint, cynical
smile at the corners of his thin lips. This man,
they said, had done the impossible. He had dragged
the prisoner out of his morass by sheer titanic effort.
Obviously Percival Field had believed firmly in the
innocence of the man he had defended, or he had not
thus triumphantly vindicated him.

The crowd, staring at him, wondered how the victory
affected him. It had certainly enhanced his reputation.
It had drawn from him such a display of genius as
had amazed even his colleagues. Did he feel elated
at all over his success? Was he spent by that
stupendous effort? No one knew?

Now that it was over, he looked utterly indifferent.
He had fought and conquered, but it seemed already
as if his attention were turning elsewhere.

The crowd began to stream out. The day was hot
and the crush had been very great. On one of
the benches occupied by the public a woman had fainted.
They carried her out into the corridor and there gradually
she revived. A little later she went home alone
in a taxi with her veil closely drawn down over her
face.

CHAPTER III

The season was drawing to a close when the announcement
of Lady Violet Calcott’s engagement to Percival
Field took the world by storm.

Page 153

It very greatly astonished Burleigh Wentworth, who
after his acquittal had drifted down to Cowes for
rest and refreshment before the advent of the crowd.
He had not seen Lady Violet before his departure, she
having gone out of town for a few days immediately
after the trial. But he took the very next train
back to London as soon as he had seen the announcement,
to find her.

It was late in the evening when he arrived, but this
fact did not daunt him. He had always been accustomed
to having his own way, and he had a rooted belief,
which the result of his trial had not tended to lessen,
in his own lucky star. He had dined on the train
and he merely waited to change before he went straight
to Lord Culverleigh’s house.

He found there was a dinner-party in progress.
Lady Culverleigh, Violet’s sister-in-law, was
an indefatigable hostess. She had the reputation
for being one of the hardest-working women in the
West End.

The notes of a song reached Wentworth as he went towards
the drawing-room. Lady Violet was singing.
Her voice was rich and low. He stood outside
the half-open door to listen.

He did not know that he was visible to any one inside
the room, but a man sitting near the door became suddenly
aware of his presence and got up before the song was
ended. Wentworth in the act of stepping back to
let him pass stopped short abruptly. It was Percival
Field.

They faced each other for a second or two in silence.
Then Field’s hand came quietly forth and grasped
the other man’s shoulder, turning him about.

“I should like a word with you,” he said.

They descended the stairs together, Burleigh Wentworth
leading the way.

Down in the vestibule they faced each other again.
There was antagonism in the atmosphere though it was
not visible upon either man’s countenance, and
each ignored it as it were instinctively.

“Hullo!” said Wentworth, and offered his
hand. “I’m pleased to meet you here.”

Field took the hand after a scarcely perceptible pause.
His smile was openly cynical.

“Very kind of you,” he said. “I
am somewhat out of my element, I admit. We are
celebrating our engagement.”

He looked full at Wentworth as he said it with that
direct, unflickering gaze of his.

Wentworth did not meet the look quite so fully, but
he faced the situation without a sign of discomfiture.

“You are engaged to Lady Violet?” he said.
“I saw the announcement. I congratulate
you.”

“Thanks,” said Field.

“Rather sudden, isn’t it?” said
Wentworth, with a curious glance.

Field’s smile still lingered.

“Oh, not really. We have kept it to ourselves,
that’s all. The wedding is fixed for the
week after next—­for the convenience of Lady
Culverleigh, who wants to get out of town.”

“By Jove! It is quick work!” said
Wentworth.

There were beads of perspiration on his forehead,
but the night was warm. He held himself erect
as one defying Fate. So had he held himself throughout
his trial; Field recognised the attitude.

Page 154

The song upstairs had ended. They heard the buzz
of appreciation that succeeded it. Field turned
with the air of a man who had said his say.

“I don’t believe in long engagements myself,”
he said. “They must be a weariness to the
flesh.”

He began to mount the stairs again, and Wentworth
followed him in silence.

At the drawing-room door Field paused and they entered
together. It was almost Wentworth’s first
appearance since his trial. There was a moment
or two of dead silence as he sauntered forward with
Field. Then, with a little laugh to cover an
instant’s embarrassment, Lady Culverleigh came
forward. She shook hands with Wentworth and asked
where he had been in retreat.

Violet came forward from the piano very pale but quite
composed, and shook hands also. Several people
present followed suit, and soon there was a little
crowd gathered round him, and Burleigh Wentworth was
again the popular centre of attraction.

Percival Field kept in the background; it was not
his way to assert himself in society. But he
remained until Wentworth and the last guest had departed.
And then very quietly but with indisputable insistence
he drew Lady Violet away into the conservatory.

She was looking white and tired, but she held herself
with a proud aloofness in his presence. While
admitting his claim upon her, she yet did not voluntarily
yield him an inch.

“Did you wish to speak to me?” she asked.

He stood a moment or two in silence before replying;
then:

“Only to give you this,” he said, and
held out to her a small packet wrapped in tissue paper
on the palm of his hand.

She took it unwillingly.

“The badge of servitude?” she said.

“I should like to know if it fits,” said
Field quietly, as if she had not spoken.

She opened the packet and disclosed not the orthodox
diamond ring she had expected, but a ring containing
a single sapphire very deep in hue, exquisitely cut.
She looked at him over it, her look a question.

“Will you put it on?” he said.

She hesitated an instant, then with a tightening of
the lips she slipped it on to her left hand.

“Is it too easy?” he said.

She looked at him again.

“No; it is not easy at all.”

He took her hand and looked at it. His touch
was cool and strong. He slipped the ring up and
down upon her finger, testing it. It was as if
he waited for something.

She endured his action for a few seconds, then with
a deliberate movement she took her hand away.

“Thank you very much,” she said conventionally.
“I wonder what made you think of a sapphire.”

“You like sapphires?” he questioned.

“Of course,” she returned. Her tone
was resolutely indifferent, yet something in his look
made her avert her eyes abruptly. She turned them
upon the ring. “Why did you choose a sapphire?”
she said.

Page 155

If she expected some compliment in reply she was disappointed.
He stood in silence.

Half-startled she glanced at him. In the same
moment he held out his hand to her with a formal gesture
of leave-taking.

“I will tell you another time,” he said.
“Good night!”

She gave him her hand, but he scarcely held it.
The next instant, with a brief bow, he had turned
and left her.

CHAPTER IV

Burleigh Wentworth looked around him with a frown
of discontent.

He ought to have been in good spirits. Life on
the moors suited him. The shooting was excellent,
the hospitality beyond reproach. But yet he was
not satisfied. People had wholly ceased to eye
him askance. He had come himself to look back
upon his trial as a mere escapade. It had been
an unpleasant experience. He had been a fool
to run such a risk. But it was over, and he had
come out with flying colours, thanks to Percival Field’s
genius. A baffling, unapproachable sort of man—­Field!
The affair of his marriage was still a marvel to Wentworth.
He had a strong suspicion that there was more in the
conquest than met the eye, but he knew he would never
find out from Field.

Violet was getting enigmatical too, but he couldn’t
stand that. He would put a stop to it. She
might be a married woman, but she needn’t imagine
she was going to keep him at a distance.

She and her husband had joined the house-party of
which he was a member the day before. It was
the end of their honeymoon, and they were returning
to town after their sojourn on the moors. He grimaced
to himself at the thought. How would Violet like
town in September? He had asked her that question
the previous night, but she had not deigned to hear.
Decidedly, Violet was becoming interesting. He
would have to penetrate that reserve of hers.

He wondered why she was not carrying a gun. She
had always been such an ardent sportswoman. He
would ask her that also presently. In fact, he
felt inclined to go back and ask her now. He was
not greatly enjoying himself. It was growing
late, and it had begun to drizzle.

His inclination became the more insistent, the more
he thought of it. Yes, he would go. He was
intimate enough with his host to do as he liked without
explanation. And he and Violet had always been
such pals. Besides, the thought of sitting with
her in the firelight while her husband squelched about
in the rain was one that appealed to him. He had
no liking for Field, however deeply he might be in
his debt. That latent antagonism between them
was perpetually making itself felt. He hated the
man for the very ability by which he himself had been
saved. He hated his calm superiority. Above
all, he hated him for marrying Violet. It seemed
that he had only to stretch out his hand for whatever
he wanted. Still, he hadn’t got everything
now, Wentworth said to himself, as he strode impatiently
back over the moor. Possibly, as time went on,
he might even come to realise that what he had was
not worth very much.

Page 156

He reached and entered the old grey house well ahead
of any of the other sportsmen. He was determined
to find Violet somehow, and he made instant enquiry
for her of one of the servants.

The reply served in some measure to soothe his chafing
mood. Her ladyship had gone up into the turret
some little time back, and was believed to be on the
roof.

Without delay he followed her. The air blew chill
down the stone staircase as he mounted it. He
would have preferred sitting downstairs with her over
the fire. But at least interruptions were less
probable in this quarter.

There was a battlemented walk at the top of the tower,
and here he found her, with a wrap thrown over her
head, gazing out through one of the deep embrasures
over the misty country to a line of hills in the far
distance. The view was magnificent, lighted here
and there by sunshine striking through scudding cloud-drifts.
And a splendid rainbow spanned it like a multi-coloured
frame.

She did not hear him approaching. He wondered
why, till he was so close that he could see her face,
and then very swiftly she turned upon him and he saw
that she was crying.

“My dear girl!” he exclaimed.

She drew back sharply. It was impossible to conceal
her distress all in a moment. She moved aside,
battling with herself.

He had never held her so before. Always till
that moment she had maintained a delicate reserve
in his presence, a barrier which he had never managed
to overcome. He had even wondered sometimes if
she were afraid of him. But now in her hour of
weakness she suffered him, albeit under protest.

“Oh, go away!” she whispered. “Please—­you
must!”

But Wentworth had no thought of yielding his advantage.
He pressed her to him.

“Violet, I say! You’re miserable!
I knew you were the first moment I saw you. And
I can’t stand it. You must let me help.
Don’t anyhow try to keep me outside!”

But he held her still. “That’s rot,
you know. I’m not going. What is it?
Tell me! Is he a brute to you?”

She made a more determined effort to disengage herself.
“Whatever he is, I’ve got to put up with
him. So it’s no good talking about it.”

“Oh, but look here!” protested Wentworth.
“You and I are such old friends. I used
to think you cared for me a little. Violet, I
say, what induced you to marry that outsider?”

She was silent, not looking at him.

“You were always so proud,” he went on.
“I never thought in the old days that you would
capitulate to a bounder like that. Why, you might
have had that Bohemian prince if you’d wanted
him.”

Page 157

“I didn’t want him!” She spoke with
sudden vehemence, as if stung into speech. “I’m
not the sort of snob-woman who barters herself for
a title!”

“No?” said Wentworth, looking at her curiously.
“But what did you barter yourself for, I wonder?”

She flinched, and dropped back into silence.

“Won’t you tell me?” he said.

“No.” She spoke almost under her
breath. He relinquished the matter with the air
of a man who has gained his point. “Do you
know,” he said, in a different tone, “if
it hadn’t been for that fiendish trial, I’d
have been in the same race with Field, and I believe
I’d have made better running, too?”

“Ah!” she said.

It was almost a gasp of pain. He stopped deliberately
and looked into her face.

“Violet!” he said.

She trembled at his tone and thrust out a protesting
hand. “Ah, what is the use?” she
cried. “Do you—­do you want to
break my heart?”

Her voice failed. For the first time her eyes
met his fully.

There followed an interval of overwhelming stillness
in which neither of them drew a breath. Then,
with an odd sound that might have been a laugh strangled
at birth. Burleigh Wentworth gathered her to his
heart and held her there.

“No!” he said. “No! I
want to make you—­the happiest woman in the
world!”

“Too late! Too late!” she whispered.

But he stopped the words upon her lips, passionately,
irresistibly, with his own.

“You are mine!” he swore, with his eyes
on hers. “You are mine! No man on
earth shall ever take you from me again!”

CHAPTER V

Violet was in her room ready dressed for dinner that
evening, when there came a knock upon her door.
She was seated at a writing-table in a corner scribbling
a note, but she covered it up quickly at the sound.

“Come in!” she said.

She rose as her husband entered. He also was
ready dressed. He came up to her in his quiet,
direct fashion, looking at her with those steady eyes
that saw so much and revealed so little.

“I just came in to say,” he said, “that
I am sorry to cut your pleasure short, but I find
we must return to town to-morrow.”

She started at the information. “To-morrow!”
she echoed. “Why?”

“I find it necessary,” he said.

She looked at him. Her heart was beating very
fast. “Percival, why?” she said again.

He raised his eyebrows slightly. “It would
be rather difficult for me to explain.”

“Do you mean you have to go on business?”
she said.

He smiled a little. “Yes, on business.”

She turned to the fire with a shiver. There was
something in the atmosphere, although the room was
warm, that made her cold from head to foot. With
her back to him she spoke again:

“Is there any reason why I should go too?”

Page 158

He came and joined her before the fire. “Yes;
one,” he said.

She threw him a nervous glance. “And that?”

“You are my wife,” said Field quietly.

Again that shiver caught her. She put out a hand
to steady herself against the mantelpiece. When
she spoke again, it was with a great effort.

“Wives are sometimes allowed a holiday away
from their husbands.”

Field said nothing whatever. He only looked at
her with unvarying attention.

She turned at last in desperation and faced him.
“Percival! Why do you look at me like that?”

He turned from her instantly, without replying.
“May I write a note here?” he said, and
went towards the writing-table. “My pen
has run dry.”

She made a movement that almost expressed panic.
She was at the table before he reached it. “Ah,
wait a minute! Let me clear my things out of
your way first!”

She began to gather up the open blotter that lay there
with feverish haste. A sheet of paper flew out
from her nervous hands and fluttered to the floor
at Field’s feet. He stooped and picked it
up.

She uttered a gasp and turned as white as the dress
she wore. “That is mine!” she panted.

He gave it to her with grave courtesy. “I
am afraid I am disturbing you,” he said.
“I can wait while you finish.”

But she crumpled the paper in her hand. She was
trembling so much that she could hardly stand.

“It—­doesn’t matter,”
she said almost inaudibly.

He stood for a second or two in silence, then seated
himself at the writing-table and took up a pen.

In the stillness that followed she moved away to the
fire and stood before it. Field wrote steadily
without turning his head. She stooped after a
moment and dropped the crumpled paper into the blaze.
Then she sat down, her hands tightly clasped about
her knees, and waited.

Field’s quiet voice broke the stillness at length.
“If you are writing letters of your own, perhaps
I may leave this one in your charge.”

She looked round with a start. He had turned
in his chair. Their eyes met across the room.

“May I?” he said.

She nodded, finding her voice with an effort.
“Yes—­of course.”

He got up, and as he did so the great dinner-gong
sounded through the house. He came to her side.
She rose quickly at his approach, moving almost apprehensively.

“Shall we go down?” she said.

He put out a hand and linked it in her arm. She
shrank at his touch, but she endured it. She
even, after a moment, seemed to be in a measure steadied
by it. She stood motionless for a few seconds,
and during those seconds his fingers closed upon her,
very gentle, very firmly; then opened and set her
free.

“Will you lead the way?” he said.

CHAPTER VI

A very hilarious party gathered at the table that
night. Burleigh Wentworth was in uproarious spirits
which seemed to infect nearly everyone else.

Page 159

In the midst of the running tide of joke and banter
Violet sat as one apart. Now and then she joined
spasmodically in the general merriment, but often
she did not know what she laughed at. There was
a great fear at her heart, and it tormented her perpetually.
That note that she had crumpled and burnt! His
eyes had rested upon it during the moment he had held
it in his hand. How much had they seen? And
what was it that had induced him in the first place
to declare his intention of curtailing their visit?
Why had he reminded her that she was his wife?
Surely he must have heard something—­suspected
something! But what?

Covertly she watched him during that interminable
dinner, watched his clear-cut face with its clever
forehead and intent eyes, his slightly scornful, wholly
unyielding lips. She cast her thoughts backwards
over their honeymoon, trying somehow to trace an adequate
reason for the fear that gripped her. He had
been very forbearing with her throughout that difficult
time. He had been gentle; he had been considerate.
Though he had asserted and maintained his mastery
over her, though his will had subdued hers, he had
never been unreasonable, never so much as impatient,
in his treatment of her. He had given her no cause
for the dread that now consumed her, unless it were
that by his very self-restraint he had inspired in
her a fear of the unknown.

No, she had to look farther back than her honeymoon,
back to the days of Burleigh Wentworth’s trial,
and the almost superhuman force by which he had dragged
him free. It was that force with which she would
have very soon to reckon, that overwhelming, all-consuming
power that had wrestled so victoriously in Wentworth’s
defence. How would it be when she found herself
confronted by that? She shivered and dared not
think.

The stream of gaiety flowed on around her. Someone—­Wentworth
she knew later—­proposed a game of hide-and-seek
by moonlight in and about the old ruins on the shores
of the loch. She would have preferred to remain
behind, but he made a great point of her going also.
She did not know if Percival went or not, but she
did not see him among the rest. The fun was fast
and furious, the excitement great. Almost in spite
of herself she was drawn in.

And then, how it happened she scarcely knew, she found
herself hiding alone with Wentworth in a little dark
boat-house on the edge of the water. He had a
key with him, and she heard him turn it on the inside.

“I think we are safe here,” he said, and
then in the darkness his arms were round her.
He called her by every endearing name that he could
think of.

Why was it his ardour failed to reach her? She
had yielded to him only that afternoon. She had
suffered him to kiss away her tears. But now
something in her held her back. She drew herself
away.

“Come and sit in the boat!” he said.
“We will go on the water as soon as the hue
and cry is over. Hush! Don’t speak!
They are coming now.”

Page 160

They sat with bated breath while the hunt spread round
their hiding-place. The water lapped mysteriously
in front of them with an occasional gurgling chuckle.
The ripples danced far out in the moonlight.
It was a glorious night, with a keenness in the air
that was like the touch of steel.

Violet drew her cloak more closely about her.
She felt very cold.

Someone came and battered at the door. “I’m
sure they’re here,” cried a voice.

“They can’t be,” said another.
“The place is locked, and there’s no key.”

“Bet you it’s on the inside!” persisted
the first, and a match was lighted and held to the
lock.

The man inside laughed under his breath. The
key was dangling between his hands.

“Oh, come on!” called a girl’s voice
from the distance. “They wouldn’t
hide in there. It’s such a dirty hole.
Lady Violet is much too fastidious.”

And Violet, sitting within, drew herself together
with a little shrinking movement. Yes, that had
always been their word for her. She was fastidious.
She had rather prided herself upon having that reputation.
She had always regarded women who made themselves cheap
with scorn.

The chase passed on, and Wentworth’s arm slipped
round her again. “Now we are safe,”
he said. “By Jove, dear, how I have schemed
for this! It was really considerate of your worthy
husband to absent himself.”

Again, gently but quite decidedly, she drew herself
away. “I think Freda is right,” she
said. “This is rather a dirty place.”

He laughed. “A regular black hole!
But wait till I can get you out on to the loch!
It’s romantic enough out there. But look
here, Violet! I’ve got to come to an understanding
with you. Now that we’ve found each other,
darling, we are not going to lose each other again,
are we?”

She was silent in the darkness.

He leaned to her and took her hand. “Oh,
why did you go and complicate matters by getting married?”
he said. “It was such an obvious—­such
a fatal—­mistake. You knew I cared for
you, didn’t you?”

“You—­had never told me so,”
she said, her voice very low.

“Never told you! I tried to tell you every
time we met. But you were always so aloof, so
frigid. On my soul, I was afraid to speak.
Tell me now!” His hand was fast about hers.
“When did you begin to care?”

She sat unyielding in his hold. “I—­imagined
I cared—­a very long time ago,” she
said, with an effort.

“What! Before that trial business?”
he said. “I wish to Heaven I’d known!”

“Why?” she said.

“Because if I’d known I wouldn’t
have been such a fool,” he said with abrupt
vehemence. “I would never have run that
infernal risk.”

“What risk?” she said.

He laughed, a half-shamed laugh. “Oh, I
didn’t quite mean to let that out. Consider
it unsaid! Only a man without ties is apt to risk
more than a man who has more to lose. I’ve
had the most fantastic ill-luck this year that ever
fell any man’s lot before.”

Page 161

“At least you were vindicated,” Violet
said.

“Oh, that!” said Wentworth. “Well,
it was beginning to be time my luck turned, wasn’t
it? It was rank enough to be caught, but if I’d
been convicted, I’d have hanged myself.
Now tell me! Was it Field’s brilliant defence
that dazzled you into marrying him?”

She did not answer him. She turned instead and
faced him in the darkness. “Burleigh!
What do you mean by risk? What do you mean by
being—­caught? You don’t mean—­you
can’t mean—­that you—­that
you were—­guilty!”

Her voice shook. The words tumbled over each
other. Her hand wrenched itself free.

“My dear girl!” said Wentworth. “Don’t
be so melodramatic! No man is guilty until he
is proved so. And—­thanks to the kindly
offices of your good husband—­I did not
suffer the final catastrophe.”

“But—­but—­but—­”
Her utterance seemed suddenly choked. She rose,
feeling blindly for the door.

“It’s locked,” said Wentworth, and
there was a ring of malice in his voice. “I
say, don’t be unreasonable! You shouldn’t
ask unnecessary questions, you know. Other people
don’t. For Heaven’s sake, let’s
enjoy what we’ve got and leave the past alone!”

“Open the door!” gasped Violet in a whisper.

He rose without haste. Her white dress made her
conspicuous in the dimness. Her cloak had fallen
from her, and she seemed unaware of it.

He reached out as if to open the door, and then very
suddenly his intention changed. He caught her
to him.

She turned in his hold, turned like a trapped creature
in the first wild moment of capture, struggling so
fiercely that she broke through his grip before he
had made it secure.

He stumbled against the boat, but she sprang from
him, sprang for the open moonlight and the lapping
water, and the next instant she was gone from his
sight.

CHAPTER VII

The water was barely up to her knees, but she stumbled
among slippery stones as she fled round the corner
of the boat-house, and twice she nearly fell.
There were reeds growing by the bank; she struggled
through them, frantically fighting her way.

She was drenched nearly to the waist when at last
she climbed up the grassy slope. She heard the
seekers laughing down among the ruins some distance
away as she did so, and for a few seconds she thought
she might escape to the house unobserved. She
turned in that direction, her wet skirts clinging
round her. And then, simultaneously, two things
happened.

The key ground in the lock of the boat-house, and,
ere Wentworth could emerge, a man walked out from
the shadow of some trees and met her on the path.
She stopped short in the moonlight, standing as one
transfixed. It was her husband.

He came to her, moving more quickly than was his won’t.
“My dear child!” he ejaculated.

Page 162

Feverishly she sought to make explanation. “I—­I
was hiding—­down on the bank. I slipped
into the lake. It was very foolish of me.
But—­but—­really I couldn’t
help it.”

Her teeth were chattering. He took her by the
arm.

“Come up to the house at once!” he said.

She looked towards the boat-house. The door was
ajar, but Wentworth had not shown himself. With
a gasp of relief she yielded to Field’s insistent
hand.

Her knees were shaking under her, but she made a valiant
effort to control them. He did not speak further,
and something in his silence dismayed her. She
trembled more and more as she walked. Her wet
clothes impeded her. She remembered with consternation
that she had left her cloak in the boat-house.
In her horror at this discovery she stopped.

As she did so a sudden tumult behind them told her
that Wentworth had been sighted by his pursuers.

In the same moment Field very quietly turned and lifted
her in his arms. She gave a gasp of astonishment.

“I think we shall get on quicker this way,”
he said. “Put your arm over my shoulder,
won’t you?”

He spoke as gently as if she had been a child, and
instinctively she obeyed. He bore her very steadily
straight to the house.

CHAPTER VIII

In the safe haven of her own room Violet recovered
somewhat. Field left her in the charge of her
maid, but the latter she very quickly dismissed.
She sat before the fire clad in a wrapper, still shivering
spasmodically, but growing gradually calmer.

“I believe there is a letter on the writing-table,”
she said to the maid as she was about to go out.
“Take it with you and put it in the box downstairs!”

The girl returned and took up the letter that Field
had written that evening. “It isn’t
stamped my lady,” she began; and then in a tone
of surprise: “Why, it is addressed to your
ladyship!”

Violet started. “Give it to me!”
she commanded “That will do. I shall not
be wanting you again to-night.”

The girl withdrew, and she crouched lower over the
fire, the letter in her hand.

Yes, it was addressed to her in her husband’s
clear, strong writing—­addressed to her
and written in her presence!

Her hands were trembling very much as she tore open
the envelope. A baffling mist danced before her
eyes. For a few seconds she could see nothing.
Then with a great effort she commanded herself, and
read:

“My own Beloved Wife,

“If I have made your life a misery,
may I be forgiven! I meant otherwise.
I saw you on the ramparts this evening. That is
why I want you to leave this place to-morrow.
But if you do not wish to share my life any longer,
I will let you go. Only in Heaven’s name
choose some worthier means than this!

“I am yours to take or leave.
P.F.”

Hers—­to take—­or leave!
She felt again the steady hold upon her arm, the equally
steady release. That was what he had meant.
That!

Page 163

She sat bowed like an old woman. He had seen!
And instead of being angry on his own account, he
was concerned only on hers. She was his own beloved
wife. He was—­hers to take or leave!

Suddenly a great sob broke from her. She laid
her face down upon the note she held....

There came a low knock at the door that divided her
room from the one adjoining. She started swiftly
up as one caught in a guilty act.

“Can I come in?” Field said.

She made some murmured response, and he opened the
dividing door. A moment he stood on the threshold;
then he came quietly forward. He carried her
cloak upon his arm.

He deposited it upon the back of a chair, and came
to her. “I hoped you would be in bed,”
he said.

“I am trying—­to get warm,”
she muttered almost inarticulately.

“Have you had a hot drink since your accident?”
he asked.

She shook her head. “I told West—­I
couldn’t.”

He turned and rang the bell. He must have seen
his note tightly grasped in her hand, but he made
no comment upon it.

“Sit down again!” he said gently, and,
stooping, poked the sinking fire into a blaze.

She obeyed him almost automatically. After a
moment he laid down the poker, and drew the chair
with her in it close to the fender. Then he picked
up the cloak and put it about her shoulders, and finally
moved away to the door.

She heard him give an order to a servant, and sat
nervously awaiting his return. But he did not
come back to her. He went outside and waited in
the passage.

There ensued an interval of several minutes, and during
that time she sat crouched over the fire, holding
her cloak about her, and shivering, shivering all
over. Then the door which he had left ajar closed
quietly, and she knew that he had come back into the
room.

She drew herself together, striving desperately to
subdue her agitation.

He came to her side and stooped over her. “I
want you to drink this,” he said.

She glanced up at him swiftly, and as swiftly looked
away. “Don’t bother about me!”
she said. “I—­am not worth it.”

He passed the low words by. “It’s
only milk with a dash of brandy,” he said.
“Won’t you try it?”

Very reluctantly she took the steaming beverage from
him and began to drink.

He remained beside her, and took the cup from her
when she had finished.

“Now,” he said, “wouldn’t
it be wise of you to go to bed?”

She made a movement that was almost convulsive.
She had his note still clasped in her hand.

After a moment, without lifting her eyes, she spoke.
“Percival, why did you—­what made
you—­write this?”

Page 164

“No,” he said quietly, and laid a constraining
hand upon her as she sat. “That is not
so.”

She contracted at his touch. “You don’t
know me. I wrote you a note this evening, trying
to explain. I told you I meant to leave you.
But—­I didn’t mean you to read it
till I was gone. Did you read it?”

“No,” he said. “I guessed what
you had done.”

Desperately she went on. “You’ve
got to know the worst. I was ready to go away
with him. We—­were such old friends,
and I thought—­I thought—­I knew
him.” She bowed herself lower under his
hand. Her face was hidden. “I thought
he was at least a gentleman. I thought I could
trust him. I—­believed in him.”

“Ah!” said Field. “And now?”

“Now”—­her head was sunk almost
to her knees—­“I know him—­for
what—­he is.” Her voice broke
in bitter weeping. “And I had given so much—­so
much—­to save him!” she sobbed.

“I know,” Field said. “He wasn’t
worth the sacrifice.” He stood for a moment
or two as though in doubt; then knelt suddenly down
beside her and drew her to him.

She made as if she would resist him, but finally,
as he held her, impulsively she yielded. She
sobbed out her agony against his breast. And
he soothed her as he might have soothed a child.

But though presently he dried her tears, he did not
kiss her. He spoke, but his voice was devoid
of all emotion.

“You are blaming the wrong person for all this.
It wasn’t Wentworth’s fault. He has
probably been a crook all his life. It wasn’t
yours. You couldn’t be expected to detect
it. But”—­he paused—­“don’t
you realise now why I am offering you the only reparation
in my power?” he said.

She was trembling, but she did not raise her head
or attempt to move, though his arms were ready to
release her.

“No. I don’t,” she said.

Very steadily he went on: “You have not
wronged me. It was I who did the wrong.
I could have made you see his guilt. It would
have been infinitely easier than establishing his
innocence before the world. But—­I have
always wanted the unattainable. I knew that you
were out of reach, and so I wanted you. Afterwards,
very soon afterwards, I found I wanted even more than
what I had bargained for. I wanted your friendship.
That was what the sapphire stood for. You didn’t
understand. I had handicapped myself too heavily.
So I took what I could get, and missed the rest.”

He stopped. She still lay against his breast.

“Why did you want—­my friendship?”
she whispered.

He made a curious gesture, as if he faced at last
the inevitable. When he answered her his voice
was very low. He seemed to speak against his will.
“I—­loved you.”

“Ah!” It was scarcely more than a breath
uttering the words. “And you never told
me!”

He was silent.

She raised herself at last and faced him. Her
hands were on his shoulders. “Percival,”
she said, and there was a strange light shining in
the eyes that he had dried. “Is your love
so small, then—­as to be not—­worth—­mentioning?”

Page 165

For the first time in her memory he avoided her look.
“No,” he said.

“What then?” Her voice was suddenly very
soft and infinitely appealing.

He opened his arms with a gesture of renunciation
“It is—­beyond words,” he said.

She leaned nearer. Her hands slipped upwards,
clasping his neck.

“It is the greatest thing that has ever come
to me,” she said, and in her voice there throbbed
a new note which he had never heard in it before.
“Do you think—­oh, do you think—­I
would cast—­that—­away?”

He did not speak in answer. It seemed as if he
could not. That which lay between them was indeed
beyond words. Only in the silence he took her
again into his arms and kissed her on the lips.

* * * *
*

By Ethel M. Dell

The Way of an Eagle
The Knave of Diamonds
The Rocks of Valpre
The Swindler
The Keeper of the Door
Bars of Iron
The Hundredth Chance
The Safety Curtain
Greatheart
The Lamp in the Desert
The Tidal Wave
The Top of the World
Rosa Mundi and Other Stories
The Obstacle Race
The Odds and Other Stories
Charles Rex
Tetherstones